The spot he would fain be leaving, for Wâ-te was ill to see
When he was roused to anger, and to win the day was trying:
Struck by his hand were many, who, brave in warfare, now on the field lay dying.
Irold and young Hartmut each on the other sprang:
On either side their weapons on the foeman’s helmet rang;
Throughout the throng of fighters, all could hear it loudly;
For bold in war was Irold, and Hartmut, too, was brave, and bore him proudly.
Herwic from the Sealands, a warrior strong and good,
Could not reach the landing, but leaped into the flood,
And in the waves was standing, up to his shoulders hidden.
Soon to his cost was he learning how hard a task it is to win a maiden.
They the shore who guarded their foemen thought to drown
While in the waters struggling. Shafts at them were thrown,
And many on them broken; but they, their foes now seeking,
Soon the sands were treading, and many a knight his wrath on them was wreaking.
Ere they had reached the shoreland, one saw the watery flood
Dyed by the killed and wounded, in hue as red as blood;
Everywhere, so widely the reddened waves were flowing,
One could not shoot beyond them, how far soe’er he might his spear be throwing.
Heavier toil and losses heroes never found,
And never so many warriors lay trampled on the ground:
Enough were they for a kingdom who lay, unwounded, dying.
The Normans who o’erthrew them, on all sides too, I ween, in death were lying.
It was to save his daughter that there King Hettel fought,
And all his kinsmen with him. On every side were wrought,
By him and those who helped him, havoc and bitter sorrow.
Dead on the Wulpensand were many bodies found before the morrow.
Unto their lords all faithful, they strove upon the sand—
Alike the men of Normandy and they of the Hegeling land.
Warriors brave from Denmark fought with matchless daring;
He ne’er should wait their onset who much for his welfare or his life was caring.
Morunc and with him Ortwin boldly held their ground,
And for themselves won honor; nowhere could be found
Men who greater slaughter wrought, with hearts undaunted:
The heroes twain, with their followers, gave full many wounds, with spears well planted.
Proudly the men from Moorland, as I have heard it said,
When from their ships they landed, the way to the foemen led.
Hettel hoped, in his struggle, help from them to be gaining,
For they were daring fighters: one saw the blood beneath their helmets raining.
How could he who led them have braver or bolder been?
That day he dimmed with life-blood many breastplates’ sheen;
Siegfried it was, unyielding in storm of battle ever.
How could the Danish Fru-te, or even Wâ-te the old, have shown them braver?
Thickly hurled were lances, hither and thither thrown:
Ortwin, with his followers, in hopeful mood came on;
Helmets that day he shattered, blows upon them dealing.
Gudrun was bitterly weeping: her women, too, were deepest sorrow feeling.
The strife, on both sides, lasted throughout the livelong day;
Longing to reach each other, they crowded to the fray.
There to knights and warriors must the fight go badly,
Where the friends of Hettel to win his daughter back were striving gladly.
The evening sun sank lower; and for King Hettel now
His losses grew the greater. King Ludwig’s men, I trow,
Did their best in fighting, but could not flee the slaughter;
Their foes they wounded deeply, and guarded thus Gudrun from those who sought her.
The strife began at morning; by night alone ’twas stopped,
And steadily had lasted; they ne’er their weapons dropped.
The old and young together gained no shame in fighting.
Now the brave King Hettel forward pressed, the king of the Normans meeting.
Tale XVIII
How Ludwig Slew Hettel, and Stole Away in the Night
Ludwig, king of the Normans, slays Hettel, and his army steals away with the maidens in the night. The Hegelings discover their departure, bury the dead, and erect a hospital and cloister in their memory.
High in hand their weapons Hettel and Ludwig bore—
Well had they been sharpened. Soon each knew the more
Who was now his foeman, such strength they both were showing.
Ludwig slew King Hettel; and out of this our mournful tale is growing.
When the lord of Matelan upon the field lay slain,
Soon ’twas told to his daughter: loudly then began
Gudrun to mourn her father, so did many a maiden;
Not one could stop her wailing: friends and foes alike were sorrow-laden.
Soon as the grim old Wâ-te the death of the king did know,
He cried and roared in anger. Like to the evening glow,
Now were helmets blazing, beneath the strokes quick given
By him and all his followers, who by their loss were unto madness driven.
However hard their fighting, how could it bring them good?
Drenched was all the island with many knights’ hot blood.
Not yet the Hegeling warriors to think of peace were ready;
Away from the Wulpensand they only wished to bring Gudrun, their lady.
In stormy fight the Waal men bewreked the death of the king;
To many a fighting Ortlander and hard-pressed Hegeling
Those who came from Denmark of friendship gave a token:
Soon these knights so daring found in their hands their trusty weapons broken.
Now to avenge his father Ortwin bravely strove:
Faithful to him did Horant and all his followers prove.
Night the field had darkened, the light of day was failing;
Then were given to many wounds from which the life-blood fast was welling.
Soon, in the dark, on Horant a Danish follower sprang;
The sword that he was holding loud on the armor rang:
Thinking he was a foeman, Horant at once upon him
Wrought most bitter sorrow: a deadly wound by that warrior brave was done him.
When Horant saw that his kinsman beneath his blow lay dead,
Then he bade that his banner be borne with his own o’erhead.
The voice of him who was dying told whose life he had taken
With his hand so rashly; sorely he mourned the friend who never would waken.
Loudly called out Herwic: “Murder here is done!
Since we can see no longer, and daylight now is gone,
We all shall kill each other, friends and foes together.
If this shall last till morning, two may be left to fight, but not another.”
Where’er they saw old Wâ-te on the stormy fighting-ground,
No one there was willing near him to be found;
No welcome, in his madness, was he to any giving:
Many a foe he wounded, and laid on the spot that he would ne’er be leaving.
’Twas well the foes were sundered until the break of day;
On either side the foemen near each other lay,
Wounded to death or slaughtered. Fast the light was waning,
Not yet the moon was risen, and the Hegeling foe the field were nowhere gaining.
The warriors grim, unwillingly, to the strife now put a stop;
The hands
