So win the long years over, and still sitteth Signy there Beside the King of the Goth-folk, and is waxen no less fair, And men and maids hath she gotten who are ready to work her will, For the worship of her fairness, and remembrance of her ill.
So it fell on a morn of springtide, as Sigmund sat on the sward By that ancient house of the Dwarf-kind and fashioned a golden sword? By the side of the hidden river he saw a damsel stand, And a manchild of ten summers was holding by her hand. And she cried: "O Forest-dweller! harm not the child nor me, For I bear a word of Signy's, and thus she saith to thee: 'I send thee a man to foster; if his heart be good at need Then may he help thy workday; but hearken my words and heed; If thou deem that his heart shall avail not, thy work is over-great That thou weary thy heart with such-like: let him wend the ways of his fate.'"
And no more word spake the maiden, but turned and gat her gone, And there by the side of the river the child abode alone: But Sigmund stood on his feet, and across the river he went. For he knew how the child was Siggeir's, and of Signy's fell intent. So he took the lad on his shoulder, and bade him hold his sword, And waded back to his dwelling across the rushing ford: But the youngling fell a prattling, and asked of this and that, As above the rattle of waters on Sigmund's shoulder he sat! And Sigmund deemed in his heart that the boy would be bold enough. So he fostered him there in the woodland in life full hard and rough For the space of three months' wearing; and the lad was deft and strong, Yet his sight was a grief to Sigmund because of his father's wrong.
On a morn to the son of King Siggeir Sigmund the Volsung said: "I go to the hunting of deer, bide thou and bake our bread Against I bring the venison." So forth he fared on his way, And came again with the quarry about the noon of day; Quoth he: "Is the morn's work done?" But the boy said nought for a space, And all white he was and quaking as he looked on Sigmund's face.
"Tell me, O Son of the Goth-king," quoth Sigmund, "how thou hast fared? Forsooth, is the baking of bread so mighty a thing to be dared?"
Quoth the lad: "I went to the meal-sack, and therein was something quick, And it moved, and I feared for the serpent, like a winter ashen stick That I saw on the stone last even: so I durst not deal with the thing."