But forth a little further and a little further on
  And all is calm about him, and he sees the scorched earth wan
  Beneath a glimmering twilight, and he turns his conquering eyes,
  And a ring of pale slaked ashes on the side of Hindfell lies;
  And the world of the waste is beyond it; and all is hushed and grey,
  And the new-risen moon is a-paleing, and the stars grow faint with day.

  Then Sigurd looked before him and a Shield-burg there he saw,
  A wall of the tiles of Odin wrought clear without a flaw,
  The gold by the silver gleaming, and the ruddy by the white;
  And the blazonings of their glory were done upon them bright. 
  As of dear things wrought for the war-lords new come to Odin’s hall. 
  Piled high aloft to the heavens uprose that battle-wall,
  And far o’er the topmost shield-rim for a banner of fame there hung
  A glorious golden buckler; and against the staff it rung
  As the earliest wind of dawning uprose on Hindfell’s face
  And the light from the yellow east beamed soft on the shielded place.

  But the Wrath cried out in answer as Sigurd leapt adown
  To the wasted soil of the desert by that rampart of renown;
  He looked but little beneath it, and the dwelling of God it seemed,
  As against its gleaming silence the eager Sigurd gleamed: 
  He draweth not sword from scabbard, as the wall he wendeth around,
  And it is but the wind and Sigurd that wakeneth any sound: 
  But, lo, to the gate he cometh, and the doors are open wide,
  And no warder the way withstandeth, and no earls by the threshold abide. 
  So he stands awhile and marvels; then the baleful light of the Wrath
  Gleams bare in his ready hand as he wendeth the inward path: 
  For he doubteth some guile of the Gods, or perchance some Dwarf-king’s
       snare,
  Or a mock of the Giant people that shall fade in the morning air: 
  But he getteth him in and gazeth; and a wall doth he behold,
  And the ruddy set by the white, and the silver by the gold;
  But within the garth that it girdeth no work of man is set,
  But the utmost head of Hindfell ariseth higher yet;
  And below in the very midmost is a Giant-fashioned mound,
  Piled high as the rims of the Shield-burg above the level ground;
  And there, on that mound of the Giants, o’er the wilderness forlorn,
  A pale grey image lieth, and gleameth in the morn.

  So there was Sigurd alone; and he went from the shielded door,
  And aloft in the desert of wonder the Light of the Branstock he bore;
  And he set his face to the earth-mound, and beheld the image wan,
  And the dawn was growing about it; and, lo, the shape of a man
  Set forth to the eyeless desert on the tower-top of the world,
  High over the cloud-wrought castle whence the windy bolts are hurled.

* * * * *

  Now over the body he standeth, and seeth it shapen fair,
  And clad from head to foot-sole in pale grey-glittering gear,
  In a hauberk wrought as straitly as though to the flesh it were grown: 
  But a great helm hideth the head and is girt with a glittering crown.