herein was might and wisdom, and the grudged and hoarded lore:
--Or, else depart on thy ways afraid from the Glittering Heath.'"

Sigurd was aware that a true warrior never refused satisfaction of
some kind to the kindred of the slain, so he agreed to the seemingly
small proposal, and immediately prepared to act as cook, while Regin
dozed until the meat was ready. After an interval Sigurd touched the
roast to ascertain whether it were tender, but burning his fingers
severely, he instinctively thrust them into his mouth to allay the
smart. No sooner had Fafnir's blood thus touched his lips than he
discovered, to his utter surprise, that he could understand the
songs of the birds, many of which were already gathering round the
carrion. Listening attentively, he found that they were telling how
Regin meditated mischief against him, and how he ought to slay the
old man and take the gold, which was his by right of conquest, after
which he ought to partake of the heart and blood of the dragon. As
this coincided with his own wishes, he slew the evil old man with a
thrust of his sword and proceeded to eat and drink as the birds had
suggested, reserving a small portion of Fafnir's heart for future
consumption. He then wandered off in search of the mighty hoard,
and, after donning the Helmet of Dread, the hauberk of gold, and the
ring Andvaranaut, and loading Greyfell with as much gold as he could
carry, he sprang to the saddle and sat listening eagerly to the birds'
songs to know what his future course should be.

The Sleeping Warrior Maiden

Soon he heard of a warrior maiden fast asleep on a mountain and
surrounded by a glittering barrier of flames, through which only the
bravest of men could pass to arouse her.

"On the fell I know
A warrior maid to sleep;
Over her waves
The linden's bane:
Ygg whilom stuck
A sleep-thorn in the robe
Of the maid who
Would heroes choose."

Lay of Fafnir (Thorpe's tr.).

This adventure was the very thing for Sigurd, and he set off at
once. The way lay through trackless regions, and the journey was long
and cheerless, but at length he came to the Hindarfiall in Frankland,
a tall mountain whose cloud-wreathed summit seemed circled by fiery
flames.

"Long Sigurd rideth the waste, when, lo, on a morning of day,
From out of the tangled crag-walls, amidst the cloudland grey,
Comes up a mighty mountain, and it is as thou