le, and the tale of his great renown:
And there sat the sons of Borghild, and they hearkened and were glad
Of their brother born in the wild-wood, and the crown of fame he had.

So she stood before King Sigmund, and spread her hands abroad:
"I charge thee now, King Sigmund, as thou art the Volsungs' lord,
To tell me of my brother, why cometh he not from the sea?"

Quoth Sinfiotli: "Well thou wottest and the tale hath come to thee:
The white swords met in the island; bright there did the war-shields
shine,
And there thy brother abideth, for his hand was worser than mine."

But she heeded him never a whit, but cried on Sigmund and said:
"I charge thee now, King Sigmund, as thou art the lord of my bed,
To drive this wolf of the King-folk from out thy guarded land;
Lest all we of thine house and kindred should fall beneath his hand."

Then spake King Sigmund the Volsung: "When thou hast heard the tale,
Thou shalt know that somewhat thy brother of his oath to my son did
fail;
Nor fell the man all sackless: nor yet need Sigmund's son
For any slain in sword-field to any soul atone.
Yet for the love I bear thee, and because thy love I know,
And because the man was mighty, and far afield would go,
I will lay down a mighty weregild, a heap of the ruddy gold."

But no word answered Borghild, for her heart was grim and cold;
And she went from the hall of the feasting, and lay in her bower
a while;
Nor speech she took, nor gave it, but brooded deadly guile.
And now again on the morrow to Sigmund the king she went,
And she saith that her wrath hath failed her, and that well is she
content
To take the king's atonement; and she kissed him soft and sweet,
And she kissed Sinfiotli his son, and sat down in the golden seat
All merry and glad by seeming, and blithe to most and least.
And again she biddeth King Sigmund that he hold a funeral feast
For her brother slain on the island; and nought he gainsayeth her will.

And so on an eve of the autumn do men the beakers fill,
And the earls are gathered together 'neath the boughs of the
Branstock green;
There gold-clad mid the feasting went Borghild, Sigmund's Queen,
And she poured the wine for Sinfiotli, and smiled in his face and said:
"Drink now of this cup from mine hand, and bury we hate that is dead."

So he too