Oh, well for him who breaks his dream
With the blow that ends the strife
And, waking, knows the peace that flows
Around the pain of life!

We are dead, my brothers! Our bodies clasp,
As an armour, our souls about;
This hand is the battle-axe I grasp,
And this my hammer stout.

Fear not, my brothers, for we are dead;
No noise can break our rest;
The calm of the grave is about the head,
And the heart heaves not the breast.

And our life we throw to our people back,
To live with, a further store;
We leave it them, that there be no lack
In the land where we live no more.

Oh, well for him who breaks his dream
With the blow that ends the strife
And, waking, knows the peace that flows
Around the noise of life!

As the last few tones of the instrument were following, like a
dirge, the death of the song, we all sprang to our feet. For, through
one of the little windows of the tower, towards which I had looked as
I sang, I saw, suddenly rising over the edge of the slope on which our
tower stood, three enormous heads. The brothers knew at once, by my
looks, what caused my sudden movement. We were utterly unarmed, and
there was no time to arm.

But we seemed to adopt the same resolution simultaneously; for each
caught up his favourite weapon, and, leaving his defence behind, sprang
to the door. I snatched up a long rapier, abruptly, but very finely
pointed, in my sword-hand, and in the other a sabre; the elder brother
seized his heavy battle-axe; and the younger, a great, two-handed sword,
which he wielded in one hand like a feather. We had just time to get
clear of the tower, embrace and say good-bye, and part to some little
distance, that we might not encumber each other's motions, ere the
triple giant-brotherhood drew near to attack us. They were about twice
our height, and armed to the teeth.