Now if I went on about their grief, 
and how they lamented, 
what each one said in grief,
what good would it do?  None at all. 
All of them were dead with him 
as to honor and possessions,
in all the things important 			1700
for bestowing on good people 
a happy life and blessedness. 
Now it's over, it has to be:
the worthy Riwalin is dead.
Nothing can be done for him,
or any other fallen man,
except what's proper for the dead.
And this is just the way things are--
we have no choice but to do without him.
May God above care for one 
who never failed a kindred spirit! 

But we must carry on the story 
and tell what became of Blanscheflur. 
When the lovely woman heard 
these most regrettable tidings,
how she felt in her heart--
God in heaven, may you preserve us
from ever knowing what that was!
Of this at least I have no doubt: 
did woman ever, for beloved man, 
suffer mortal heartbreak, 
all that pain was in her heart. 
It overflowed with deadly sorrow--
well did she prove to all the world 
how much to heart she took his death. 
But throughout her suffering, at its worst, 
never did her eyes grow moist. 
But great God, how could it be 
that she shed not a tear in this? 
Her heart had turned to stone--
no life remained in it
except living desire
and that one vital suffering 
that with its life disputed hers. 
But did she never, you may ask, 
give vent to cries of distress?  No.
From that moment she was struck dumb, 
the cry of grief died on her tongue. 
Her voice, her mouth, her heart, her mind, 
they were gone, all of them. 
She never spoke a word of sorrow, 
she neither sighed nor groaned in pain, 
only sank down and lay
until the fourth day in agony, 
more pitiful than any woman. 
She writhed, bent and twisted her body
this way and that, again and again,
without stopping, until she bore,
at the end of anguish, a son.
Lo, he lived.  She did not.			1750

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