{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_46119/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_46119","id":"gutenberg_46119","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/46119","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Novels","Opera","Operas -- Stories, plots, etc.","Wagner, Richard, 1813-1883. Ring des Nibelungen. Walk\u00fcre -- Adaptations"],"text":"THE VALKYRIES\n\nBY\n\nE. F. BENSON\n\nAuthor of \"Limitations,\" \"Dodo,\" etc.\n\n\n\nT. FISHER UNWIN\n\nLONDON LEIPZIG PARIS\n\n1903\n\n\n\n[Illustration: The Flight of the Valkyries]\n\n[Illustration: Brunnhilde]\n\n[Illustration: Siegmund The Wolsung]\n\n[Illustration: Waltraute]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\nCHAPTER I\nINTRODUCTION: THE HOUSE OF HUNDING\n\nCHAPTER II\nTHE COMING OF THE STRANGER\n\nCHAPTER III\nTHE STORY OF THE STRANGER\n\nCHAPTER IV\nTHE RECOGNITION\n\nCHAPTER V\nTHE STRIFE OF WOTAN AND FRICKA\n\nCHAPTER VI\nSIEGMUND'S LOT IS CAST\n\nCHAPTER VII\nTHE FIGHT OF SIEGMUND\n\nCHAPTER VIII\nTHE FLIGHT OF BRUNNHILDE\n\nCHAPTER IX\nTHE SENTENCE OF BRUNNHILDE\n\nCHAPTER X\nTHE SLEEP OF BRUNNHILDE.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\nTHE FLIGHT OF THE VALKYRIES Frontispiece\nOFTEN HAD SHE SAT THERE\n\"LADY, I THANK THEE\"\n\"TO-NIGHT WE ARE HOST AND GUEST\"\nAT THAT HE WRENCHED AT THE SWORD-HILT\n\"I GIVE THEE MINE OATH!\" SAID HE\nVERY SLOWLY SHE ARMED HERSELF\n\"WOTAN'S SPEAR IS STRETCHED AGAINST THEE, SIEGMUND\"\nBRUNNHILDE BRINGS SIEGLINDE TO THE VALKYRIES' MEETING-PLACE\nCROUCHING AMONG HER SISTERS\nTHEN TENDERLY HE RAISED HER FROM WHERE SHE KNELT\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n\n\nIn the following pages an attempt has been made to render as closely\nas possible into English narrative prose the libretto of Wagner's\n\"Valkyrie\". The story is one little known to English readers, and even\nthose who are familiar with the gigantic music may find in the story\nsomething which, even when rendered into homely prose, will reveal to\nthem some new greatness of the master-mind of its author. It is in this\nhope that I have attempted this version.\n\nWhether I have attempted a task either absolutely impossible, or\nimpossible to my capacity, I cannot tell, for so huge is the scale of\nthe original, so big with passion, so set in the riot of storm-clouds\nand elemental forces, that perhaps it can only be conveyed to the mind\nas Wagner conveyed it, through such sonorous musical interpretations\nas he alone was capable of giving to it. Yet even because the theme is\nso great, rather than in spite of it, any interpretation, even that\nof halting prose, may be unable to miss certain of the force of the\noriginal.\n\nThe drama itself comes second in the tetralogy of the Ring, being\npreceded by the Rheingold. But this latter is more properly to be\nconsidered as the overture to a trilogy than as the first drama of\na tetralogy. In it the stage is set, and Heaven above, rainbow-girt\nWalhalla, and the dark stir of the forces beneath the earth, Alberich\nand the Niebelungs, enter the arena waiting for the puny and momentous\nsons of men to assert their rightful lordship over the earth, at the\narising of whom the gods grow grey and the everlasting foundations of\nWalhalla crumble. From the strange loves of Siegmund and Sieglinde,\nlove not of mortal passion, but of primeval and elemental need, the\ndrama starts; this is the first casting of the shuttle across the\nwoof of destiny. From that point, through the present drama, through\nSiegfried, through the dusk of the gods the eternal grinding of the\nmills continues. Once set going the gods themselves are powerless\nto stop them, for the stream that turns them is stronger than the\nthunderings of Wotan, for the stream is \"That which shall be.\"\n\nIn storm the drama begins, in storm of thunder and all the range of\npassion and of death it works its inevitable way, till for a moment\nthere is calm, when on the mountain-top Brunnhilde sleeps, waiting for\nthe coming of him whose she is, for the awakening to the joy of human\nlife. And there till Siegfried leaps the barrier of flame we leave her.\n\nE. F. BENSON.\n\n\n\n\nTHE VALKYRIES\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\n\nTHE HOUSE OF HUNDING\n\n\nNever before in the memory of man had spring been so late in\ncoming, and into mid-May had lasted the hurricanes and tempests of\nwinter. Not even yet was the armoury of its storms and squalls wholly\nspent, and men, as they huddled by the fire and heard night by night,\nand day by day the bugling of the wind, and the hiss of rain and the\npatter of the hailstones, wondered what this subversion and stay of the\nwholesome seasons should portend. For now for many years had strange\nomens and forebodings shadowed and oppressed the earth. Some said that\nthe earth itself and Erda the spirit of earth were growing old; some\neven had seen the great mother, not as of old she had appeared from\ntime to time, vigorous and young, clad in the fresh green of growing\nthings, but old and heavy-eyed, and her mantle was frosted over with\nrime, for the chill of the unremitting years had fallen on her. Others\nagain said that in Walhalla, which Wotan the father of gods and men had\nbuilded by the might of giants, all was not well; that shadows crowded\nin places where no shadows should be, and that their companies grew\never greater, and that dim voices of wailing and of warning sounded\nin the ears and in the high places of the gods. Others said that the\ngods themselves were growing old; that Wotan feared the spirits of\nthe earth, and of the places beneath the earth, for he was no longer\ncertain of his strength, and that age and the grey shadow of death\nitself looked over his shoulder when he sat alone, and when he slept\nwith Fricka his wife visions of ill portent would trouble his dreams\nso that often he rose at dead of night from his couch, and would look\nfrom the walls of Walhalla over the still sleeping earth, wondering\nfrom which quarter danger would come, and from where he would first see\nthe red light of war. Night by night he would commune with himself,\nwondering how it was that the strength and the merriment of old days\nhad departed, wondering, yet in himself knowing. For he knew the Book\nof Fate and of that which should be, as a man still dreaming knows that\nhe is in bed, and the night-hag rides him, and yet is powerless either\nto fully sleep or fully wake. Certain also it was that day by day he\nsent his daughters, whom he begat by Erda the spirit of the earth,\nto slay and bring into Walhalla heroes of the sons of men, into whom\nhe breathed the spirit of eternal life so that for ever they should\nguard those walls that once he thought impregnable; and day by day did\nthe eight Valkyries, led by Brunnhilde, the fairest and the strongest\nof them all, go on their quests. She it was in whom above all Wotan\ndelighted, for so at one with him was the swift strength and fearless\nwill of the maid; it was to her he told all his intentions and his\npurposes, and not to Fricka his wife, so that often when he talked with\nBrunnhilde he scarcely knew whether he spoke to her or whether his own\nsoul but communed with itself. Yet though he thus guarded Walhalla,\nthinking to make it safe, he knew that there was one thing in the world\nwhich was stronger than he, and that was Fate. What Should Be, would\nbe, and What Should Be recked of Wotan as lightly as it recked of the\nfalling of a sparrow, or the passing of a spring shower.\n\nNow these omens of gloom and fate which lay heavy on Walhalla,\ntroubled also the minds of men. If death came to the gods, should not\ndeath come also to the earth and the children of the earth? When the\nMaster fell should not the servant fall also? Yet because the race of\nmen were yet but young on the earth, and vigorous, flourishing in stony\nplaces like a creeping plant that shall soon cover the desert with its\nstems, there were men, and those wise ones, who held that after the\nfall of the gods the kingdoms of the world and all the sovereignty of\nthe earth should soon be given to the sons of men. And they looked for\nthe coming of one who should challenge the gods themselves, before whom\nthe everlasting foundations of Walhalla should crumble. He it was, they\nsaid, whom Wotan feared, he who was free and owed nothing to the lords\nof Walhalla, for Wotan knew that before him his own god-like strength\nwould crumble as a dead leaf, and as a dead leaf be borne away on the\nwinds. And in this long continuance of winter, when already spring\nshould have awakened the earth with its glad shout, they saw in figure\nthe winter of the gods; and when winter should cease and spring come,\neven so would come in the fulness of time now nigh the upspringing\nof men, in which should be forgotten the winter of the gods. For the\nfinger of fate pointed to the new time, when Walhalla should be shaken\nand fall, and men should be slaves no longer to the early outworn gods,\nbut possess the earth in peace and plenty.\n\nYet still in mid-May the storms of winter were not spent; still the\nsap of growing things stayed and stirred not in the barren branches\nof the forest trees. And winter still froze and hardened in the heart\nof Sieglinde the wife of Hunding. Though she had been long his wife,\nyet she was still young, and her woman's heart hungered for love, and\nstarved for a man she could love, but froze again ever into ice at the\nsight of her lord. Unwittingly and by compulsion of her kindred and his\nshe had married him; hate blossomed in her heart where the flower of\nlove should have made fragrance, and in all but deed she was unfaithful\nto him. Day by day she did the work of a wife; she made his food for\nhim before he went out to the hunt, whether it was the deer he hunted\nto make venison, or man that he hunted for vengeance, for he was of the\ntribe of the Niedings, who wooed by sword and violence, and from the\nslaughter of her kindred had often borne away a maid to her wedding\nfeast Then after she had given him his food, she would give him his\nspear and sword and shield, a service which but earned her a curse or a\nblow, and watch him stride off into the forest, with bitter loathing in\nher heart And truly if hate could kill, Hunding would have died by his\nwife's hand a hundred deaths a day.\n\nBut the hours when he was out were more tolerable, for after she had\ncleaned the house, and made all ready for his return, she would be free\nof the man she so hated till night came. Then, maybe, if suns were\nfair, she would sit outside, the house, listening to the sounds of the\nforest at noonday, little knowing how in the years that were coming,\none, her first-born and only son, of a stranger union than ever gods or\nmen had dreamed of, would listen in like manner to the murmurs of the\nforest, till the song of the bird spoke to him not with unintelligible\ntwitterings, but with a voice as clear as the tones of a friend. Or\nshe would let down her mane of golden hair, loving it because it\nwas beautiful, and hating it because it was Hunding's, his to twine\npassionate hands in, his to cut off and throw on to the hearth if so he\nwished. Thus she both hated and loved her own beauty; loved it because\nshe longed to give it to a man she loved, hated it because it belonged\nto a man she hated.\n\nAt other times she would walk down through the pine-trees to where\nthe mountain brook fell into the black lake, that lay deeper, it was\nsaid, than line could plumb. Often she had sat there, wondering how\nit was that she of the Wolsung breed, daughter of the god Wotan, when\nin form of a man he wooed and won the forest maid who was her mother,\nyet lacked the courage to plunge in and be done with Hunding and her\nwoe for ever. Yet had she known it, it was courage not cowardice that\nheld her back from the leap, courage and that firm and strong belief\nthat burned like a little flame, so clear, and yet so tiny within her,\nthat there was something more written for her in the Book of Fate, to\nwhich even Wotan bowed, than that she should end all in one moment of\nunwomanly despair. Then, maybe, she would creep to the edge of the\nwater, where the lake lay still and windless, and behold in that mirror\nthe wonder and glory of her face, warm and red with the flow of her\nstrong blood, with the great grey eyes all wildness and all fierce\npassion for the man she had never seen, whose coming her heart welcomed.\n\n[Illustration: Often had she sat there.]\n\n\"Surely I bring him a gift which not many would despise,\" she would\nsay to herself; \"and O, when he comes, the love which is in my heart\nwill make me more beautiful than ever!\" Then, maybe, if the spring\nstirred in her blood, she would lie there imagining him. Dark men she\nhated, because Hunding was dark. Dark was he and swarthy, of great\nstature, but so broad of build that he seemed not tall. Dark eyes\nlooked from out of the eaves of his overhanging brows, a cavern fringed\nwith long growth of eyebrows, and dark and mirthless and cruel was\nhis heart. Not so should her lover be; he, the man for whom fate had\npredestined her, for whose sake fate held her back from the lake that\nwas as black as Hunding. No, he should be tall, but slight, strong\nwith the strength of speed and lightness, not strong with the knotted\nstrength of the oak-tree. Hunding was black, so he should be fair, his\nhair of the colour of honey when it is drained fresh from the nest of\nthe wild bee, and the sun strikes it.\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" she would say, \"the colour, the colour;\" and then a braid\nof her own hair would stray over her shoulder; \"yes, that colour,\"\nshe would say; and indeed it was beyond compare, for fresh honey was\nlustreless beside it. Grey should his eyes be, for Hunding was dark,\ngrey with a reflected blueness lying deep therein, even as her own eyes\nwere grey like thin skeins of cloud suffused with the inimitable blue\nof the heaven behind them. Then she would picture him, and lo! when\nthe picture was complete, the man whom she desired, for whom her heart\nwaited, was of the same glorious mould as herself, such a man as Wotan\nmight have begotten by the forest maiden who bore Sieglinde herself.\n\nThen when evening approached and the shadows of the pines began to\nlengthen across the lake, and the twittering of birds began to be\nhushed in the bushes, she would turn homewards again, and get ready\nthe supper for her lord, and wait, his return. Sometimes even when she\ngazed into the lake, his image would cross her mind, and at that the\nreflection of her face froze and sickened. And every evening when she\nheard his step it froze and sickened, and her heart sickened also, and\nSieglinde was Sieglinde no longer, but his wife, faithless in all but\ndeed. Sometimes if the day and work had not gone well, he would speak\nno word to her, and again a curse or a blow might be her only traffic\nwith him till next day he went forth again into the forest. But if the\nday had prospered with him, if he had slain much game, be it man or\nbeast, he would be well pleased with her, and laugh to see her hatred\nof him, for that but seemed to kindle his love for her beauty. But\nSieglinde was better pleased if he cursed her, for since he was hateful\nto her, his displeasure was almost sweet to her, but his pleasure made\nher sometimes hot with hatred against him, and she could have killed\nhim, sometimes cold with hatred, when she could have killed herself.\nNevertheless, between her and death stood ever the image of one who\nshould come with outpouring of love, at sight of whom her own love long\nfrozen and pent within her, nor even yet come to birth, should also be\noutpoured as the sap in a tree is called forth by the spring and the\nsun, and must follow that sweet bidding. But as yet it was winter with\nher and the world, and for sun the chill rain hissed on the roof-tree,\nand among the trees of the forest the winter wind sighed in the bitter\nair.\n\nThe house of Hunding, Sieglinde's house of hate, stood high in the\nforest, and all round it grew great trees of stately growth, where in\nthis May-time the birds should have been already mated, the male with\nthroatfuls of song to while his mate's hour of patient brooding, she\nbusy with the cares of motherhood. But so long had winter lingered,\nthat the branches and boughs were still scarcely green with the buds\nthat, herald spring, and as yet their feathered citizens were silent.\nOn the hill-side the pine forest came down to the borders of the stream\nwhich fed the lake into which Sieglinde used so often to look, and\nfrom year's end to year's end this was never wholly silent because of\nthe breezes that even in the depth of summer made music in the pines,\nso high and open to the clear winds of heaven was the place set, and\nby night and day low moaning as of a distant sea sounded ever through\nthe chambers of the house of Hunding. Four-square was the house;\nthe door opened straight from the wood of beech and oak in which it\nstood, into the dwelling-place, and on one side was the open hearth\nwith seats right and left of it When sitting there Sieglinde could\nsee through the smoke-hole the sky outside, and on clear nights would\nnotice how the stars looked down through the curling wood-smoke, even\nas that which she knew would come to her shone steadfastly, though\noften obscured through the troubled clouds of her life. In front\nstood the table at which Hunding ate, and at which, when her lord had\nfinished, she ate also. In the very centre of the hall grew a great\ntree, in the branches of which rested the beams of the roof. This was\nthe work of Hunding, which he had prepared before ever he went on his\nviolent wooing; and cunningly was it contrived, so that the strength\nand stability of the tree passed into the house itself, and not all\nthe winds of heaven could move the house unless the tree itself was\nuprooted. Often did Sieglinde gaze at the mighty trunk, but not for\npleasure at the workmanship of the house, but because in her day-dreams\nshe ever saw her deliverance from the hated yoke of Hunding bound up\nwith the tree. For on the day of her abhorred wedlock, when the kith\nand kin of Hunding made merry at his marriage feast, while she, whom\nhe had carried off, sat apart with downcast eyes, and heart in which\nhatred of her husband already had flowered, there strode into the hall\none whom neither she nor Hunding, nor any of those who sat at meat with\nhim, knew. But as he came into the hall, a hush fell on the din of\nmerry-making, and none durst ask him who he was, or what his business\nthere might be. First one and then another started up to ask him what\nhe did there, for he came unbidden by any, but at the flash of his eye,\neach in turn fell back abashed, but Sieglinde met his gaze undismayed,\nand found there no tremor nor fear, but a sudden spring of hope. The\nstranger was clad in a long cloak of blue, and on his head was a hat of\nso wide a brim that one of his eyes only was seen. Yet that was enough\nto put fear into the hearts of all except Sieglinde; and she found\nthere hope and the promise of delivery. Still in silence he drew the\nsword he wore, and with one movement buried it up to the hilt in the\nstem of the ash. Then said the stranger: \"Whoso can pull out the sword,\nhis shall it be,\" and without more words strode out as he had come.\nThen one after the other, beginning from Hunding, all tried to draw out\nthe sword, yet none with his utmost might could stir it an inch from\nthe place where the stranger had so lightly thrust it. But ever, since\nthe stranger's glance had fallen on her, Sieglinde knew in her heart\nthat the man who would draw it out would be her deliverer from the\nhouse of hate. And thus she often cast her eyes to where the hilt of\nthe sword still gleamed against the dark trunk of the ash, and waited\nfor one to come.\n\nFor the rest, curtains of woven wool, the work of Sieglinde's years\nof loveless marriage, hung on the walls, and on the floor were strewn\nbear-skins, the spoils of Hunding's hunting. Beside the hearth a\nstairway of few steps led to the store-house, and in the wall opposite\nwas the door that led to the bed-chamber. Little recked Hunding when in\nthe house of aught but his food and his sleep; and the table at which\nhe ate, the stool on which he sat, and the bed in which he slept were\nfurniture enough for him. And since to Sieglinde the house was a house\nof hate, she cared not to make it fair as women do whose heart is at\nhome. Clean was the house and bare; the roof kept out the rain, and\nHunding's hunting made a fat table.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nTHE COMING OF THE STRANGER\n\n\nOn a certain day then in this May month, when winter still held sway,\nHunding, as his custom was, had left the house armed with his spear\nand sword and shield, as soon as the eyelids of the wind-swept morning\nopened in the skies, and all day Sieglinde had been alone. All day too\na riotous storm had beset the place, so that she had stirred not from\nthe house, but when her work was done sat and listened to the bugling\nblasts, half in fear, half in hope that this tempest and hurly-burly of\nthe skies might prove too strong for the cunning handiwork of Hunding,\nand that the very house should fall upon her as she sat there, making\nan end of her hopes and her hate. So strong was the tempest that she\nfeared Hunding might return before the day was over, but the hours\npassed on, and still he came not; and towards the sunset she went into\nthe store-house, as her custom was, to make ready for his supper.\n\nShrill and loud blew the wind, so that the walls of the house\ntrembled with its violence, and the sheets of rain were flung\nunceasingly against the building. For all that, it seemed to her that\nby now some change had come over the day; no longer were the blasts\ncold and piercing like those she had known now for months past, but\nthere was something of warmth and softness in them. And for all the\nrain was so heavy, yet to her mind it was more like to the heavy and\nfruitful rain of spring than the volleyings of winter tempests. All\nthis made within her a sort of eager restlessness; often during the\nday she had started on some errand in her work, and had left it with\na sigh unfinished or had forgotten what she had intended; often too\nshe had looked at the sword-hilt gleaming against the dark ash-stem,\nand thrills of unaccountable expectation had been hers suddenly and\nunconjecturably sweet. But as the day went on, the storm grew even\nfiercer, though it seemed to her that a warmth and languor was in the\nair, and tardily enough and with limbs unstrung she went about the\ntime of sunset to the store-house. The bread she had made that morning\nwas there, and the venison which Hunding had killed two days before.\nThen from the store she took honey to make mead for his drink, when\nsuddenly she heard the house door bang, and hate surged bitterly into\nher throat, for she knew that it must be her husband come home. And\nwhether it was the coming of spring that troubled her blood or not, she\nfelt then for him such loathing as had never before been hers, and her\nhand so trembled that she stayed a little within, till he should call\nto her, or until she was more mistress of herself. But no sound came\nfrom the hall, and after a little while, leaving the meat and the bread\nand the honey there, she went to the door to see whether it was indeed\nHunding who had returned, for she wondered that he had not called to\nher.\n\nIt was now dark, and only the gleam from the fire made a little\nbrightness in the hall, and for a moment she thought that it must have\nbeen the wind only that had moved the door, for she saw none there,\nneither Hunding nor another, but only the firelight crouching on the\nhearth and leaping on the walls of the empty room, and gleaming very\nbrightly on the hilt of the sword which the stranger had buried in\nthe ash-stem on the day of her marriage. Then with a cry of surprise\nshe saw that a man was stretched out on the bear-skin by the hearth,\nwithout movement, but lying like one dead. His face she could not see,\nfor it was turned away from her towards the fire, but he was tall in\nstature, and his arm, bare to the shoulder, was strong and sinewy. His\nclothes were ragged and drenched with the rain, but the firelight shone\non the hair that fell thickly to his shoulder, and it gleamed yellow in\nthe firelight like the honey she had just now drawn for her husband's\nmead. And when she saw that she felt that for a moment a long-drawn\nbreath hung suspended in her bosom. Then, for here was a man sick\nperhaps to death, and in need of help, the thought that had not yet\nbeen consciously hers died again, and she went nearer to him. But still\nthe man did not move; only she saw that his tunic rose and fell with\nthe rising and falling of his breath, and she knew that whoever he was\nhe was not dead, but only fallen in sore faintness of exhaustion, and\nthat his eyelids, which had fallen over his eyes, so that the lashes\nswept his cheek, were not closed in the sleep of death. And as she\nthus looked at his face which was turned towards the firelight, again\na breath hung suspended in her bosom, for he was fair, not dark like\nHunding, and the short beard of early manhood which fringed his tip and\ncovered his chin was yellow, even as the honey which she had drawn for\nher husband's mead.\n\nEven as she looked, the man stirred, and though his eye did not open,\nhis tongue moved in his mouth, and--\n\n\"Water, water!\" he whispered, and his voice was low and deep and soft.\n\nAt that Sieglinde stayed not in idle surmise, but pity for a man\ndistressed woke in her heart, pity and the woman's need to help, and\nshe took up Hunding's drinking-horn which she had laid on the table for\nhis supper, and hurried out of the house to where the well of water\nsprang bubbling out of the mossy bed beneath the hawthorn trees. The\nstorm had altogether ceased, and in the heaven washed clean by the rain\nthe stars burned large. The chill of the long winter had gone, and the\nbalmy warmth of spring filled the air, and, even as she bent to fill\nthe horn at the runnel of water, close above her head a nightingale\nburst into bubbling song. And she wondered, yet paused not to wonder,\nbut hurried back into the house with the horn brimful of the fresh\nspring water.\n\nSo with the horn in her hand she returned, and found the stranger still\nlying as she had left him, and into his nerveless hand she put the horn.\n\n\"Water,\" she said, \"thou didst ask for water;\" and he drank till the\nhorn was empty, yet still raised not his eyes.\n\n\"Water, water,\" he said; \"thou hast given me water, and I give thee\nthanks. Already----\"\n\nAnd he paused, and the bear-skin stood away from the braced arm.\n\"Already I am my own master again. That was all I needed.\"\n\nYet that was not all, for he sank back again to his elbow in the\nbear-skins, and he gazed at her.\n\n\"Lady, I thank thee,\" said he. \"Thou hast wakened me, thou hast\nwelcomed me. The sleep and darkness of my faintness stands away from\nme. So tell me: whom is it that I thank?\"\n\nJust then the firelight died down, and from flame there was but\na mere glow on the walls. Only in the darkness the glow lit on the\nhilt of the sword that a stranger on the day of her marriage feast had\nthrust in the ash-stem, and on the head of a stranger who lay at the\nhearth. Yet wondrously spring bubbled in her heart, though as yet she\nknew nought but that only a wayfarer had happened here, and that she\nhad relieved his sore need.\n\n[Illustration: \"Lady, I thank thee.\"]\n\n\"The house is Hunding's,\" said she. \"She who gave thee drink is the\nwife of Hunding,\" and at that the hatred of her man rose bitter and\ndeadly in her throat \"His guest--the guest of Hunding art thou. Abide\nthen here, he will soon be home.\"\n\nThereat a sudden log caught fire in the hearth, and in the blaze she\nsaw the colour fly to his face, and the light from the firelight\nsparkle in his eyes. And they were grey, but blue was behind them, as\nif a summer cloud flecked the open heaven.\n\n\"There is no harm,\" said he, still weak from his adventure, and\nloth to meet her gaze; \"I am without weapon. He would not grudge a\nweaponless guest such harbourage, though his wife is alone with him and\ntends to him. Also I am wounded.\"\n\n\"Wounded!\" she cried; and again there was nought but pity in a woman's\nheart for a man in distress, pity and the need to give help. \"Where art\nthou wounded? Let me see to thy hurt.\"\n\nAgain he raised his eyes to her, and at the sight his blood beat\nquicker, and resumed its more wonted way, and, refreshed of his\nfaintness by the water she had brought him, he shook the hair back from\nhis white forehead, and though not yet enough himself to stand up, sat\nerect on the bear-skin, rejoicing to feel the life return in warmth and\ntingling to his limbs. And he thought no more of his wounds, for it was\nof the gracious woman who faced him that he thought.\n\n\"Ah, they are nothing,\" he said. \"They are not worth the words we\nhave already spent on them. See! my arms will serve me yet,\" and he\nthrust out first one and then the other with vigour, so that the\nmuscles stood out on them like cords, and in turn he clenched his\nhands. \"Would that my shield and spear had served me as well,\" said he;\n\"then should I not have run from my foes, but my shield was shivered,\nand my sword broken. Yes, I am a man who ran from his foes. What else\ncould I do? Often through the forest they were close behind me, and\noften the branches through which I plunged had not yet closed behind\nme, when one or another of my foes was lashed by the back-stroke of the\ntwigs. But now, faster than my flight my faintness leaves me. Faster\nthan the storm, which all day has buffeted me, riding on the wings of\nthe wind, my strength returns; my fear and the night and darkness which\nclosed over my senses roll away, and the sun comes out again.\"\n\nLow burned the firelight on the hearth; and in the darkness she could\nscarce see the stranger's face, but the music of his voice beat on her\near, and within her, her heart beat in tune to it And a sudden tumult\nshook her, and she sprang up, feeling the need to do something, not\nto watch only for the upspringing of the fire so that she should see\nhim, nor to question him so that his voice should sound on her ear. So\nagain she took the drinking-horn of Hunding, and fetched honey from the\nstore-chamber, and made within it the yellow mead, and handed it him.\n\n\"Drink,\" she said. \"The water has given thee life; take thy strength\nagain also.\"\n\n\"Drink thou first,\" said he.\n\nSo Sieglinde took the horn and sipped it, and gave it back to the\nstranger. And he, putting his lips where hers had touched the horn,\ndrank deeply of it, and bowing his head in thanks gave it back to her.\nAs he did so, again the fire shot up and prospered on the hearth; each\nsaw the other more clearly than before, and the woman was fair and the\nman also, and in each grey eyes were shot with blue, and the yellow\nhair of each was of the same brightness. Long they looked at each\nother undismayed, he, because he must soon depart, and this one long\nlook could hurt neither, unless a little heart-ache were a hurt; she,\nbecause her dreams had become suddenly coloured with life, and because\nshe hated Hunding.\n\nBut there comes an end to all moments be they sweet or bitter, and\nsoon he got up. Tall was he as Hunding, but his form was slight as of\na youth but lately come to man's estate, but in the clean lines of arm\nand leg there was strength and swiftness.\n\n\"Thou hast refreshed my faintness,\" said he. \"Thou hast given me life\nagain. And for thanks what can I say? This only: may sorrow ever be a\nstranger to thee. May happiness be ever about thy home. I am rested and\nrefreshed; I will go on my way.\"\n\nThen her heart awoke, and told her that she could not let him go.\nAlready the fire of love was beginning to burn within her, and her\ndreams every moment were flushed more deeply with life. And though her\nvoice was half strangled in her throat, she answered him lightly: \"Why\nsuch haste?\" she said; \"wait a little longer.\"\n\nHe paused on his foot and looked at her.\n\n\"That would be but poor thanks for thy kindness,\" said he; \"for\nwherever I go I bring sorrow with me, sorrow and ill-luck. If thou\nwert my enemy I would stay; it is because thou hast been good to me\nand gracious that I go, taking my ill-luck with me, that it should not\nabide untowardly in thy house. So I delay not, but go,\" and he turned\nquickly and went to the door.\n\nThen when his hand was on the latch, and in the next moment he would\nhave gone forth into the night, and out of her sight for ever, her\nheart again would not suffer her to remain dumb. Little of sorrow or\nill-luck could he bring to her while she abode still in the house of\nHunding, for all the sorrow in the world, or so it seemed to her, was\nhers already, nor was there any ill-luck which he could bring which\nshould be comparable to that which was ever about her house and about\nher bed, and sat at meat with her.\n\n\"There is no sorrow thou couldest bring me,\" said she, \"for it is mine\nalready. Look on these walls; they are builded firm, and it is of hate\nthey are builded. Sorrow and hate and ill-luck were the masons, and\nthey have built well. Look! thou wilt find no cranny nor chink. O, I\nhave a well-established house!\" and she laughed with sudden bitterness.\n\"So stay,\" she said, and her voice quivered like an aspen leaf.\n\nBy now the logs that Sieglinde had cast on the hearth against\nHunding's return were fully caught, and loud laughed the firelight on\nthe walls. In that brightness they saw each other more clearly yet,\nand the long look that had passed between them was again renewed.\nOther fires, too, were burning, for each now felt much pity for the\nother--Sieglinde for the stranger in that he was lonely and the quarry\nof ill-luck; the stranger for her in that when love should have been\nblossoming in her home, the strong poisonous flowers of hate were there\ninstead. But as she spoke, the latch fell from his fingers, and he\nslowly returned and sat down by the hearth.\n\n\"Yet I have warned thee,\" said he. \"Woe is my name, and if thou fearest\nnot Woe, thou fearest not me. I will wait for Hunding to thank him for\nthe rest and refreshment I have found in his house.\"\n\nThen though Sieglinde's heart rejoiced that she had stayed his going,\nyet she was troubled. For though nothing could have been more right\nthan that he should wait for Hunding, her lawful lord, yet she knew\nwhy she had bade him stay, for the woman in her called for man. And in\nsilence she lit the lamp and placed it on the table; and in troubled\nsilence she made all ready for Hunding's coming. Not long did she wait,\nfor in a short space she heard the stroke of his horse's hoofs on the\nstones without; she heard him lead the beast to the stable and shut the\ndoor; she heard his step again outside and the jar of the lifted latch.\n\nThen she looked once more at the stranger and he at her, and with\nthat the door opened, and Hunding, black as the night outside, stood\nthere. Then seeing a stranger by the hearth he paused, with the door\nstill swung open, and looked with an unspoken question at his wife.\nFrom without came in the warm breath of the spring night, and the\ndwelling-place was filled with it, as the vats are filled with the\nodours of the wine when the vintage time has come, and in the heart of\nSieglinde the flowers of hate burst into passionate blossom, and with\nthat growth was mingled another.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nTHE STORY OF THE STRANGER\n\n\nFor a moment there was silence. Then said Sieglinde: \"I found him here\nby the hearth, Hunding; he was faint, his foes pursued him.\"\n\nHunding looked darkly at her, and more darkly yet at the stranger. He\non Hunding's entrance had turned himself, and risen from his seat, as\nif to greet his host; but even as his greeting was on his lips he had\npaused, for there was something in that black look which made him feel\nsome echo of Sieglinde's hate.\n\n\"It is ever well to help the helpless,\" said Hunding evilly. \"Thou\ngavest him refreshment?\"\n\n\"Even so,\" said she. \"He was my guest--your guest; faint by the hearth\nI found him. He waited for your coming.\" Not a smile of welcome did\nHunding give, for it was not his way to smile; and already in his\nblack heart hatred blackened towards his guest, and suspicion, ere yet\nit came, cast its shadow. And as his host did not greet him, neither\ndid the stranger greet his host. Yet he could not bear that the woman\nshould be blamed for what he had done. His was the blame.\n\n\"I was shelterless,\" said he, looking at Hunding. \"She sheltered me. I\nwas faint: she revived me. Is there blame in that?\"\n\n\"Blame? Who talks of blame?\" said Hunding more blackly yet. \"My hearth\nis holy: not otherwise has any guest of mine found it, and guest of\nmine art thou. Inviolable are these laws.\"\n\nAnd without more words he turned to Sieglinde, who, as her custom was,\ntook his weapons of hunting and hung them up on the ash-tree beneath\nthe gleaming sword-hilt Hunding hated the sword-hilt, for he had not\nbeen able to move it, and he knew that in this world there was but one\nwho could. On that day also he knew trouble would come to his house.\nBut he told Sieglinde to bring supper for him and his guest, and as she\nmoved about her work, he stood beneath the ash-stem and looked from\nher to the stranger and back again. Each was cast in noble mould, and\nthey were strangely like the one to the other, for the head of each was\nbright with sunny hair, and in the grey eye of each was seated some\nsecret sorrow. Tall was his wife, and tall the stranger, and the skin\nof each was fair as the skin of a child, and as smooth. For himself he\nfelt like a base-born man in the presence of the gently bred; and as he\nlooked he hated each, and the shadow of his suspicion grew darker. Then\nhe turned to the stranger, and speaking like a man who conceals nought--\n\n\"Thy way has been long,\" he said, \"and thou hast no horse. Where hast\nthou come, and whither goest thou? What journey has thus travel-stained\nthee?\"\n\nThen said the stranger: \"The storm and the foe have driven me far, and\nby what way I know not. And where I have come I know not, for my way\nwas long, and the heavens and earth were blinded with tempest. Tell me\nthen where I have come.\"\n\nAnd as Hunding looked on him again, the likeness of the stranger to\nhis wife smote on him like a blow; and again he looked from one to the\nother, as Sieglinde brought in venison and the fresh-baked bread, and\nput them ready on the table. But he answered him with seeming frankness.\n\n\"It is to Hunding's house thou hast come,\" he said, \"and under the roof\nof Hunding thou hast rested. Not here is the home of my kindred, but\nfar away to northward; and they of my blood are mighty and many. Be\nseated then, guest of mine, and in return tell me thy name.\"\n\nSo the stranger seated himself, and when he was seated Hunding sat\ndown also, and Sieglinde, who had finished the serving, sat by her\nhusband opposite to their guest, and her eyes dwelt ever on him very\nsteadfastly, and his on her, and neither took heed of Hunding, who\nwatched them both. Eagerly she waited for him to tell them his name,\nexpecting she knew not what; but as her eyes looked on him, she forgot\neven that Hunding had asked it, for she forgot all else except that\nin front of her and at her husband's table was seated the fair-haired\nstranger. As for him, his eyes were fixed in thought, as if he\nmeditated on his answer. Yet since it was a strange thing that a guest\nshould not tell his name to his host, again Hunding questioned him.\n\n\"Surely I would not press aught unwelcome on my guest,\" said he,\n\"if he wills not to tell me. But see how my wife also waits for your\nanswer. She too would fain know the name of her guest and mine;\" and\nagain he looked at Sieglinde.\n\nBut she took not her eyes off the stranger, for the sight of him fed\nher heart, making her content. And though she cared not to know his\nname, she could not but do her husband's bidding, and she too asked him\nhis name, if so be he would be willing to tell it.\n\nThen again for a long moment was the stranger still silent, but at the\nlast he raised his eyes and looked at her, and some secret sympathy\npassed like a wave between them; and he spoke to her only.\n\n\"My name is Wehwalt, the man of Woe,\" said he, \"for mine is the\nportion of sorrow, and my father was called 'The Wolf.' He begat twins,\na sister and myself; but while I was yet so young that I scarce knew\nher name or the name of my mother, the Wolf, my father, took me into\nthe forest, there to rear me up to be strong and warlike, even as\nhimself. Strong too and warlike were his foes, and there were many of\nthem. Then, after years, one day he took me home, but no home found we\nthere, but only the burnt ashes of what had been. There lay my mother,\nfallen and dead in defence of the hearth, but of my sister no trace was\nleft. Such was my home-coming.\"\n\nHe paused, but took not his eyes from Sieglinde's face, and his voice\nrose in sudden fire as he went on with his tale.\n\n\"The treacherous Niedings had done this,\" he cried, \"and deadly was\ntheir work. Bitter and relentless they pursued us, and for years my\nfather and I lived a hunted life in the forest, beset with our foes.\nYet ever his courage and his cunning avoided the snares they set for\nus, and, by the side of the Wolf, the Whelp grew up through boyhood to\nearly manhood.\"\n\nThereat he paused again, and turned to Hunding.\n\n\"That Wolfs whelp tells you the tale,\" said he.\n\nNow at the words of the stranger the suspicion that had hung over\nHunding's heart like a poised hawk grew suddenly nearer, as if it\nstooped to its prey, for even in the manner in which the stranger told\nthem his sister had been lost to him, in that manner was his own wife\nwon. Well he remembered how the mother fought for the daughter, but at\nthe end she was slain, and the house burnt, and the girl carried off by\nforce; and again the strange likeness of the two struck on his heart.\nAs for his wife Sieglinde, her face was a mask, and she only gazed at\nthe stranger with wide, grey eyes, and what she thought no man knew,\nand least of all her husband. Also he had heard stories of the Wolf and\nthe Whelp, as the forest folk called them, and now the Whelp told the\ntale himself. But since he must needs know more yet, he curbed himself.\n\n\"Wehwalt,\" said he; \"Wehwalt, the Wolfs whelp, it is a strange story\nthat thou tellest us. Of thy name in stories of strife and war I have\nheard men tell. Yet saw I never the Wolf thy father nor his son till\nto-day.\"\n\nHe would have said more, but Sieglinde, her eyes all aflame,\ninterrupted him. \"Tell us the rest,\" she cried, and her voice strangled\nin her throat, for if Hunding remembered how his wife was carried off\nfrom the burnt home, should not she remember? \"Tell us where thy father\nis to-day? Where is his home? Is it near--is it near?\" she cried.\n\nThen the stranger shook his head.\n\n\"Thou shalt hear,\" he said, \"and I will tell thee all. For after the\nburning of the house, and the murder of my mother, and the seizing\nof my sister, ever more fiercely did the accursed Niedings press on\nus, for the blood, maybe, had whetted them. But the Wolf was ever\nstronger and more cunning than the men, and day after day he drove them\nthrough the forest, and in his paths the dead lay thick. Even as a ship\nscatters the spray in clouds before its bows, even so they fell off\nspent from his advance, and he passed on over them, I with him, heeding\nthem as little, as they writhed in their death agonies, as the ship\nheeds the billows it ploughs through. Thus fared we till the day came\nwhen my father was not. A wolf-skin I found in the forest, but of him\nno trace. And whether he is dead I know not, or whether,\" and his eye\nbrightened \"whether he was not of mortal birth, and his work there was\nfinished, and he went whither he would.\"\n\nFor a moment he paused, and on one side the eager grey eyes of the\nwoman met his, and by her sat her husband, whose black eyes smouldered\nwith hate that was scarce concealed. But in the light of the grey eyes\nhe forgot the black.\n\n\"Wanting him,\" he said, \"I left the forest and lived among men and\nwomen of civilized race. Yet wherever I went, whether I sought for\nfriend only, or sought for wife, I prospered not, and he who should\nhave been friend turned from me, and she whom I sought for wife thought\nscorn of me, for ill-luck was ever about my path. Did I think a thing\nright? That was enough: to all others the deed seemed foul. Did I think\na deed false? To all others it appeared fair. And thus I was at war\nwith the whole world. About my path watched hate, and anger against me\ngrew like weeds in the bush. Did I seek for joy? Bitterness was mine,\nand woe and sorrow. Thus came I to call myself Wehwalt, for woe was my\nfate. So I named myself to fit my fate.\"\n\nThen Hunding wiped his mouth, for he had made an end of eating, and\nlaughed bitterly.\n\n\"Truly then thou hast named thyself,\" said he, \"if none to whom thou\ngoest as a guest is glad at thy coming, and slow to love thee, and\ngrieves not when thou goest And indeed such seems to be thy case.\"\n\nAt that Sieglinde turned and faced her husband, as she had never faced\nhim before.\n\n\"Ah!\" she cried, \"there speaks the coward, Hunding. For who but a\ncoward would insult a man who is alone, and who is weaponless?\"\n\nThen she turned to the stranger again.\n\n\"Guest of mine and of Hunding's,\" she said, \"thy tale is but half told.\nHow came it that thou art without thine arms? Where is thy shield and\nthy sword and thy spear, that thou goest at the mercy of every coward?\"\n\nAt that Hunding laughed, for he was minded to be amused. But she\nheeded not, and but listened for the stranger's words.\n\n\"It was thus that I lost my shield and spear and sword,\" said he;\n\"for I went to help and to rescue, if so be I could, a maid whom her\nkin wished to marry to a man she loved not. To me she came for help,\nand help I gave her, for I bethought me of how the Wolf would descend\nlike a hill-top storm on to his foes, and I, his whelp, could do no\nother way. So hewed I and hacked among the cruel kin, for rage was in\nmy heart, since it was by such unhallowed wooing that I had lost my\nsister, and I cleared the homestead of her evil clan. Two brothers\nhad she, who would make the marriage, and for them I made a funeral\ninstead of a marriage for their sister. But at that--ill-luck still\nfollowing me--the tenderness of the maid awoke, and she wailed their\nloss, and her grief conquered her erstwhile cry for help. Thus for me\nwho had delivered her she had only curses. Then, as I waited there,\nfrom every side swarmed out the kith and the kin of those whom I had\ndone to death, so that the forest was thick with them. Yet the maid\nstill bewailed her brothers, and cursed me for their death, and cursed\nherself for that she had bidden me to aid her, and so compass it. With\nmy sword I still defended her, for her kin were thirsty for her blood,\nand with my spear I sent more to their account, till at the end my\nsword was shattered, and my spear sundered. Then with these eyes I saw\nthem murder the maiden as she still bewailed her brethren; and since\nI could do no more, I fled from before their faces, while she, dead,\ncrowned the heaps of dead. So fled I, and came hither.\"\n\nThen again he paused, and looked at Sieglinde with a pitiful entreaty.\n\n\"Thus is it with me,\" he said, \"and thus it has always been with me. Am\nI not right then to name myself by a name of woe? Has peace or joy any\nlot with me?\"\n\nAnd the stranger got up, for he suddenly could bear her gaze no\nlonger, and walked to the hearth. And she, when the magic of his gaze\nwas withdrawn, turned pale suddenly, moved more deeply than she knew\nhad been possible. Only Hunding still eyed him with growing hate and\ncertainty. Already he knew enough, and his vengeance, so he swore\nto himself, should soon be complete. And he rose also and faced the\nstranger.\n\n\"Truly ill-luck has guided thee here,\" he said; \"and ill-luck planted\nthy feet when they came to the house of Hunding. For have I not often\nheard of the race to which thou belongest? And thou spakest truly when\nthou saidst that thy coming gave no joy to any host, for thou art of\na wild, unhallowed breed, whose right is wrong in the eyes of all the\nworld of men, whose true is false, whose false is true. All day have I\nbeen nearer to thee than thou knewest of, and the adventure thou hast\ntold us is not yet complete.\"\n\nWith that he drew nearer to the stranger.\n\n\"It is now my turn to tell my guest of myself,\" he said, \"and let\nhim know where my feet have borne me. It was kin of mine whom thou\nhast slaughtered in impotent defence of a maid of my race; my kin are\nthe brothers you killed, and all day I have been on the track of him\nwho killed them. But all day have I been too late, though fast on the\ntrail. Yet when I return home, whom find I at my hearth? Him, the\nmurderer of my kin. Thus there is blood already between us, and ever\nshall be.\"\n\nAt his words his wife Sieglinde rose with terror and pity in her\nface, and drew near to the two men. But Hunding heeded her not.\n\n\"To-night,\" he said, \"thou art guest at mine; that must needs be\nso. But at dawn to-morrow, Wolfs whelp, I am thy host no more, and\nthou shalt answer for the blood of my kindred which thou hast shed.\nHast thou no arms? So much the worse, for thou wouldest be safer for a\nsword, and at sunrise we meet. To-night we are host and guest, but a\ndawn to-morrow be ready to meet me as the avenger of my kindred.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"To-night we are host and guest.\"]\n\nAt these words Sieglinde could contain herself no more, but came\nquickly up, and placed herself between the two men.\n\n\"No, no!\" she cried. \"It cannot be, Hunding.\"\n\nThen his wrath flamed up. \"Hence, go hence,\" he cried; \"get to thy\nwork, and make ready my night-drink; go from the hall.\"\n\nAt his words she fell back, still pondering with her quick woman's\nwit as to how she could avert this. From the table she took the\ndrinking-horn, and from the cupboard the spices with which she made the\nhot, fragrant draught which Hunding loved. And even as she turned to\nleave the hall, sudden and high like a summer fire in the forest her\nlove for the stranger flamed in her heart, and with love a sudden wild\nup-springing of hope. He still stood by the hearth, scarcely heeding\nHunding's words, for his eyes ever followed her, and as she was even\nnow on the threshold, she cast one long glance at him, and then, as if\nleading his eye thither, looked to where the hilt of the sword in the\nash-trunk glimmered in the firelight. Then she looked back to him, and\nknew that he understood not, for how should he understand?\n\nBut Hunding saw that she still lingered, and with furious finger\npointed her forth, and she left them. Then he took his arms from the\ntree.\n\n\"Words for women, and weapons for men,\" said he. \"Wolfs whelp, we meet\nto-morrow.\"\n\nAnd he strode from the hall into his bed-chamber, leaving the stranger\nalone.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nTHE RECOGNITION\n\n\nSo Hunding went forth and left the stranger alone with the leaping\nflames and shadows from the hearth. Long pondered he on what the day\nhad brought forth, and what should be the burden of the morrow; but\nthrough all his thoughts there rose like a flame of dancing fire the\nthought of the woman Sieglinde, and of his love for her, and how he\ncould help her to leave this house of hate. Weaponless was he, and her\nhusband had mocked at him for it. Then his thoughts went backwards to\nthe old wild days in the forest when he and his father, whom he had\ncalled by the name he was known to men, were the swift terror of their\nfoes. And at that a sudden hope sprang up within him, for he remembered\nhow his father had told him that when his need was sorest, a sword\nshould be near him. Surely now his need was sore enough, yet where was\nthe sword? At that he cried aloud on his father's name, the secret name\nknown but to him, and \"Walse, father Walse!\" he cried, \"show me the\nsword, for my need is sore.\"\n\nNo voice answered him, but the stillness was broken by the sound of\nthe logs on the hearth suddenly falling together, and from the embers\nwent up a sudden flame illuminating the walls, and gleaming on the\nsword-hilt Then remembered he that Sieglinde's last look had directed\nhis eyes there, but from where he sat he could see the gleam only, and\nknew not yet that it was a sword. Only he thought to himself that her\nlast look had fallen there, and something of the gleam of her eyes\nstill lingered there, making the dark stem bright But the gleam was\nvery steady, and he wondered at it.\n\nThen the flames from the hearth grew low again, and the shadows\nthickened in the hall. But something of the brightness still lingered\nwithin him, and he thought of how the eyes of the woman had shone on\nhim all the evening when they sat at meat, and it seemed to him as if\nhis soul, on which long night had settled, had been bathed in the beams\nof morning. Light and hope she had brought to his darkened heart; for\none day he had basked in sun-shine, and ere yet his sun had sunk behind\nthe hills again, one last evening ray had so illumined the ash-stem,\nthat something of the light had still lingered there. Still lingered\nit also in his heart, though she had gone, and though the shadows\nof his woes crowded fast upon him, even as upon the walls of the\ndwelling-place they gathered in growing battalions, as the flames on\nthe hearth sank ever lower. Yet still he sat there with open unseeing\neyes. No thought of sleep was his. How could he sleep when Sieglinde\nabode within the house of hate? Round him the shadows grew and\nthickened, and at length the last sparks on the hearth were quenched,\nand through the open chimney only there filtered in a little greyness,\nso that though all was dark, yet the density of that blackness was\ngreater here and less there.\n\nHow long he sat there, alert though lost in reverie, he knew not,\nbut at the end a little noise fell on his ear and the door of the\nbed-chamber was opened, and framed in darkness he saw there a white\nfigure. And his heart so hammered within him, that it seemed to him\nthat the noise of it must awaken Hunding. Yet he moved not, neither\nspoke, and the figure came nearer. Then a voice that he knew fell like\npearly rain on the stillness.\n\n\"Sleepest thou?\" she whispered.\n\nThen he could stay still no longer, but sprang up noiselessly.\n\n\"I?\" he stammered, \"I sleep, when thou seekest me?\"\n\n\"Listen,\" said she. \"In Hunding's night-draught I have mixed a sleeping\npotion, and thus the whole night is before us to devise a plan for thy\nsafety.\"\n\n\"Safety?\" whispered he. \"With thee is my safety, and my----\" And then,\nbecause he was Hunding's guest, he paused. Yet he was Hunding's foe at\ndaybreak.\n\n\"But a sword, a sword!\" she cried.\n\n\"Ah! there is no need to speak low; we shall not waken Hunding, for I\nbrewed his drink strong. Ah! could I but bring thee the sword, for a\nsword waits here for him who is fit to seize it. It is near to thee\nnow, and truly thine is an hour of sore need.\"\n\n\"What sayest thou? What is it thou hast said?\" cried the stranger.\n\nSo she told him the story of her marriage feast, of how another\nstranger had strode to the board, and flung the sword in the ash-stem.\n\n\"There, there,\" she said, pointing at it, looking where she had\nlooked before; \"and one, only one shall be able to move it. Ah! when\nhe comes--he who is ordained--then shall my vengeance for the years of\nsorrow I have passed in the house of Hunding be sweet to my mouth. For\nevery tear I have shed here, my mouth shall be full of laughter and\njoy; for all the tears that I could not shed out of very bitterness and\ndrought of soul, joy shall be mine too deep for smile or laughter. My\nfriend, the friend of my soul, him I wait for, and with him there will\nbe peace and victory for us both.\"\n\nThen the stranger, knowing that there could be but one, and that his\nfather whom he had called \"The Wolf,\" who could cast a sword as the\nwoman had said, and remembering that he had told him that in the hour\nof his sorest need a sword should be near him, knew that this was the\nsword of which he spoke, and that it was he who should draw it forth.\nAnd knowing that, he gave no more thought to it, for the woman had said\nthat he who should draw it forth was the friend of her heart, and that\nknowledge for the moment drowned all else, and covered his soul with\na huge, soft billow of joy, so he gave no heed to the sword, but only\nto her who stood by him. And in the exultation of his love he laughed\naloud, and passionately drew her to him.\n\n\"And that is I, that is I!\" he cried, \"O crown and flower of\nwomanhood! All my hopes in thee are fulfilled, and all my failures in\nthee are mended. Hard and long has been the way that led us each to the\nother. Lo! I heal the wounds which wrong has made, and thy hand soothes\nand banishes all my woe. Shame has been thy portion in the house of\nhate. Hunding thy husband! No mumbling vow hallows that unnatural\nunion. Thou hast called for vengeance, and vengeance is at thy side,\nand the arm of vengeance thus wound round thee makes thee strong. But\ndearer and nearer I approach to thee than that. My hand bears vengeance\nfor thee, but my heart bears love. Sieglinde! Sieglinde!\"\n\nEven as they stood thus, in the first transport of the knowledge that\nthey loved, the great door of the hall swung open noiselessly, for\nmaybe Hunding had not closed it when he returned home, and Sieglinde\nstarted in sudden alarm.\n\n\"What is that?\" she cried. \"Who went? Who has come?\"\n\nSlowly the door swung wide, and a great flood of moonlight poured\nin upon the pair, bathing them in its beams. High rose the moon in\na cloudless heaven, and the warm breeze of spring whispered through\nthe bushes and filled the hall. At length and at last the winter had\nceased, and spring, that moment of all the year when the sap stirs\nin the trees, and the birds are mated, and lion seeks lioness in the\nLibyan hills, and man turns to woman and woman to man, spring was upon\nthem in its overpowering fulness and sweetness. None may resist its\ncompulsion, nor did they resist. Gently he drew her to him, and whether\nhe spoke or sang she knew not, or whether it was only the echo of her\nthoughts she heard. But it seemed to her that his voice spoke.\n\n\"None went, but one has come,\" said he. \"Look you, this house is the\nhouse of hate no longer, but the place of spring. For May has awoke,\nand the storms are hushed, and winter is over, and the glory of spring\nspreads round us. He wakes the warm winds, and as he wakes them they\nwaft him on, and at his coming the wayside blossoms with its yearly\nmiracle. Hedge and heath, field and forest are redolent with flowers,\nand as he moves across the world, laughter hails him on all sides. O!\nthe time of the singing birds is come, and the breath of the earth is\nwarm and sweet. Spring lies among the bushes, and where his warm body\nis pressed the flowers spring, and the young shoots of the trees, when\nthey see his bosom rise and fall to the beat of his heart, put out\ntheir amorous branches to touch his fair form. Along the world strike\nhis smiles, and with them, his sole weapons, he makes the whole world\nmad. The flash of his eye slays the winter, and at his glance the\nstorms are hushed. All doors fly open to meet his coming, even as the\ndoor of the house of hate opened just now of its own accord, and spring\nis here.\n\n\"And who walks with him? Love his sister. In our hearts she slept, and\nwhen he came the doors of our hearts were opened also, and she laughs\nwhen she sees the light. The walls that held us are crumbled, and she\nis free. Spring the brother meets love the sister, and they meet here\non the threshold of our hearts. They have found each other, and we have\nfound each other.\"\n\nAnd whether she replied to him he knew not, or whether it was only the\necho of his thoughts he heard, but it seemed to him that her voice\nspake.\n\n\"Spring,\" she said. \"O spring, my brother, how have I sorrowed for\nthee and sought thee. Long has winter held us both, but when first I\nsaw thee, how with love and I knew not what dread my heart was drawn to\nthee. Friendless was I, and he who was nearest to me was nearest also\nin hate. At length, at length thou earnest, and at the first glance, I\nknew that thou wast mine, and all the secret treasure of my heart, all\nthat I am, was poured out for thee. Friendless was I, and frost-bound\nof heart and utterly lonely. Then, O my friend, thou earnest!\"\n\nAnd wonder and awe at the greatness and might of the gift that the\nspring had brought to both fell on them, and for a long while they\nstood thus content, if so be that lovers are ever content, in gazing\nat each other. Then the full love surged strong within them, so that\nspeech could not be withheld, and Sieglinde wound her arms round his\nneck yet more closely.\n\n\"Let me gaze on thee,\" she whispered, \"for my senses reel with longing\nfor thee, and reel in that they are satisfied when they behold thee. I\nam on fire.\"\n\n\"Yea, the moon makes thee on fire,\" said he, \"and like living fire thy\nhair burns round thee. I gaze and I gaze, and still I am unfilled.\"\n\nThen Sieglinde with her hand swept back the hair from his forehead, and\nwith her finger, smiling like a child, she traced the path of the blood\nin his temple.\n\n\"See how thy life spreads like the boughs of a tree, and puts forth\nshoots in thy temples,\" said she. \"I am faint and sick with content,\nyet even now sounds warning in my ears. Though never before have I seen\nthy face, yet long before have I known it.\"\n\n\"I, too,\" said he, \"when dreams of love visited my sleep, have dreamed\nof thee and of no other. With what sadness did I behold thee then. And\nnow, and now----\"\n\n\"And often,\" said she, \"as I gazed in the black lake, where it is still\nand waveless, have I seen thy face as in some magic mirror that showed\nme what should be. And now, and now----\"\n\nAnd like a child she laughed for pleasure, and as the wonder of their\nlove grew and deepened, so the silence of love, more musical than\nhearing itself, descended on them. That long draught of silence was\nwine to each thirsty soul, and when they had drunk deep of it, again\nSieglinde spake.\n\n\"Speak to me, and let me be silent listening,\" she said, \"for thy\nvoice comes to me out of the early years when I was but a child. Thy\nlaugh rings to me out of those golden mists before--before----\" and she\nshuddered at the thought of Hunding.\n\n\"Speak thou,\" said he, \"and let me listen.\"\n\nAgain the tide of love filled her full, even as the bitter creeks and\nmarshes are flushed with the return of the water. Then struck her a\nsudden wild thought, and again she gazed earnestly into his eyes.\n\n\"Without words when thou came faint with weariness, thy glance looked\nso to me, till my despair was mild, and died in the light of the day\nthat streamed on me. Wehwalt! ah no, such cannot be thy name. What is\nthere of woe left? Not the shadow of the dream even!\"\n\n\"No, I am Wehwalt no longer!\" cried he, \"for thy love has banished woe\nfrom me. That name which I gave myself is gone, for gone is woe. Ah,\nwoman, woman, give me my name; tell me by what name I shall be called,\nand that, thy gift, and none other shall be my name.\"\n\nThen looked she at him as one half lost in thought.\n\n\"And Wolf, was Wolf thy father's true name?\" she asked.\n\n\"Wolf he was called,\" said the stranger, \"and as Wolf he was feared,\nfor he was as a wolf among timorous foxes. Yet it was not as Wolf I\nknew him. His glance was bright as thine, and as far-reaching, and that\nglance was the glance of Walse.\" Then was that mystery of fate by which\nshe was led to him, even as Spring the brother met Love the sister on\nthe threshold of their hearts, made manifest to her, and the knowledge\ndrove her beside herself.\n\n\"So,\" she said, \"Walse was thy father, and thou art a Wolsung. For thy\nsake did Walse fling the sword into the ash-stem, for well know I that\nit was Walse who flung it there and no other. And on my tongue thy true\nname trembles, the name by which I love thee--Siegmund, Siegmund.\"\n\nThen sprang Siegmund, stranger no longer, to the ash-stem, and in his\nright hand seized he the gleaming hilt.\n\n\"Thou sayest it!\" he cried, \"and the sword shall prove I am\nSiegmund. For Walse told me that when my need was sorest then should\nthe sword of deliverance and victory be near me. Has it not come? Has\nnot my need been sore? For love is the sorest need a man can know, and\nthat is mine; and deep is the dear wound it has made in my breast. Burn\ndeeper yet, O wound, stirring me to strife and strenuous deed. Lo! I\nname it, the sword of need--Nothung, Nothung. Come forth then, Nothung,\nleave thy dark sheath, and bare thy shining blade. I, Siegmund, bid\nthee.\"\n\n[Illustration: At that he wrenched at the sword-hilt.]\n\nAnd at that he wrenched at the sword-hilt, and that which no power\nof the guests of Hunding's marriage feast could stir, moved at his\nbidding, and leaped forth to his hand. Bright and lordly shone it in\ntile moon of spring, and Sieglinde beheld, and her eyes were dazzled\nwith its shining, even as her heart was dazzled with love.\n\nThen cried Siegmund again: \"Behold me, Siegmund the Wolsung, the son\nof Walse. This is my bridal gift to thee, the sword of victory and\nof thy deliverance. Wife to me art thou by right, even as the sword\nis mine by right Round thee crumbles the house of hate. Come forth,\ncome forth into the light of love. Lo, the house of hate and of spring\nopens its doors wide, so follow, follow! Nothung, thy deliverance, and\nSiegmund, whose life is thy love, go with thee.\"\n\nHe seized her with the violent tenderness of love, and drew her to him.\nStraight in front of them opened the door into the house of spring, and\nit was fair. Yet, since he knew not yet who it was he led out with him,\nshe spoke, even as he led her forth.\n\n\"Siegmund, Siegmund,\" she said, \"O take me, take me. Thy longing has\nled thee to me. Is the flash of my eyes like the flash in the eye of\nWalse thy father? So be it: for who else should be like him but I? The\nburned homestead, the vanished sister, dost thou forget them? By the\nsword, even as Walse said, thou winnest her.\"\n\nAnd for one moment Siegmund gazed at her in wild amaze. Then, for the\nspring was hot in his blood, and it was so written in the Book of Fate,\nto which even Wotan bows, whether he lords it in heaven, or as Walse he\nstrides in the forest, there was no stop or stay for his passion.\n\n\"My bride, my sister!\" he said, \"brother and bridegroom long for you.\nFor the blood of the Wolsungs will blossom yet.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nTHE STRIFE OF WOTAN AND FRICKA\n\n\nNot far from the house of Hunding, but above the great wood of pines\nthat with their dark plumes fringed the hillside opposite, there was\na region of wild and bleak rocks, where, if any breeze stirred below,\nhere it was as a strong wind. And if storm was coming over the earth,\nhere above all would the clouds gather, and gloom and mix together till\nthe power of the heavens willed that they should go on their appointed\njourneys of wrath or mercy to the thirsty earth. Thus the Valkyries,\nthe wild maidens of the storm, were often wont to come here, riding on\nthe wings of the wind, for their joy was in tempest and strife, and\nthey cared little for peace and content, and their home was with the\nthunder, and the lightning was the lantern they loved best. At other\ntimes, when the heavens were clear, and the benediction of the sun\nbrooded over the earth, here, above the woods and the damp and sorry\nlowlands, was its light the most serene and bright. Pure blew the airs\nas they blew to the mariner in the shrouds of his ship, and on all\nsides carved out to infinite distance lay vales and mountain peaks and\nridges of hills, folded and knit the one into the other as the muscles\nof a strong man's arm rise and fall into ridge and furrow where his\nstrength abides.\n\nThus it way that Wotan the king of the gods often came here, for\nhere it was that he would be like to find his daughter Brunnhilde, the\neldest of the Valkyries, and of all living things the dearest to him;\nand from here, as from a fortress home, she and her sisters, having\ncommuned with their father, would start on their war-raids, riding on\nthe storm, and dazzling the souls of men with their beauty and their\nterror. And on the selfsame night, that first of spring, when spring\nand love awoke together in the hearts of Sieglinde and Siegmund, and\nmaddened them with their sweetness, Wotan with his daughter Brunnhilde\nhad sat night-long on that serene mountain-top, and he, communing with\nher as he communed with his own soul, had spoken to her of that wild\ndeed which the brother and sister, his children by the forest maiden,\nhad committed. And in the deeps of his heart he guessed, though darkly\nas in a glass, that from Siegmund the Wolsung should come that man\nfor whom he waited, one free and owing nothing to the favour of the\ngods, who alone should be able to bring back to him the ring of the\nRhine-gold, in whose circlet lay the wealth of the world and unmeasured\nmight, even as Erda had foretold to him. Nor did the mating of this\nstrange pair amaze or disquiet him, for they loved with that love\nwhich is the fire of the earth, and without which the earth would grow\ncold, and to his eyes that fire, from whatever fuel it was kindled,\nwas a thing sacred beyond compare; while of the vows of a loveless\nmarriage, such as Sieglinde's had been, he recked nought, nor scrupled\nto scatter it to the winds, even as a man on an autumn day scatters the\nthistledown on the breezy uplands, and cares nought where the winds may\ntake it. For as light as thistledown to him were loveless vows, but\nlove, even though no vow may hallow it, he held more sacred than his\nown oath.\n\nSo when the day dawned, he rose from the rock where he had been\nsitting, and Brunnhilde rose from her place by his knee.\n\n\"Up then to horse, my maid,\" he cried, \"and be strong and swift to aid.\nEre long the clash of arms shall be heard, and Bunding follow hard on\nSiegmund's trail. Up then, Brunnhilde, and put might into the heart\nof Siegmund the Wolsung, and strength into his arm. I reck nothing of\nBunding, for he is no son of light, but of darkness. So to horse and\naway; get thee to Siegmund's side.\"\n\nThen loud and long Brunnhilde shouted her cry of war, so that the\nrocks re-echoed, and far away from the muffled hillside of pines came\nthe response.\n\nThen ere she went, she climbed quickly to the topmost pinnacle of the\nridge of rocks, and looking down into the ravine behind, she saw one\nwhom she knew coming quickly up, and with a sweet sort of malice in her\nheart she called to her father Wotan.\n\n\"Fly, father, fly!\" she cried, half laughter, half pity for him. \"Let\nthe king of gods be seen to fly for his safety, for a storm for thyself\nsweeps hither swiftly. Fricka thy wife is near on thy trail, driving\nher chariot with its harnessed rams. Up the path she comes; canst thou\nnot hear the strokes of her golden whip, which like a flail she is\nplying? Listen to the bleatings of her belaboured steeds, listen to the\nrattling of her whirling wheels, while to guide her path to thee, anger\nflares like a beacon in her face. Father, dear father, such fights as\nthese are little to my liking, for Brunnhilde would sooner meet the\narmed strength of men than the spirted venom of a woman's tongue and\nher war of words. Meet thou this fight as thou best may, for in such\ncase I love to desert thee, and laughing I desert thee now. Yet I will\nwait hard by till Fricka has gone, and once more talk with thee ere I\ngo to aid Siegmund.\"\n\nThen once again, turning a look of love and laughter on her father,\nBrunnhilde shouted her joyous war-cry so that the distant hills\nreplied, and sped quickly away until Fricka should have done with\nWotan. With love shining in his eyes for her, he saw her go, and with\nanger and misgiving in his heart he saw his wife approach, knowing that\na war of words was before him. For well he knew that she had come on\nthis selfsame matter of Siegmund and Sieglinde, for so lawless a deed\nwas an outrage to her. Yet was Wotan's purpose undismayed, and he swore\nto himself that she should find him steadfast in his resolve to aid\nSiegmund.\n\n\nNow Fricka, though she was Wotan's wife, was not the companion of his\nheart; for she was cold and hard of nature, and nought that was human\nbeat in her bosom. And by the great human heart of Wotan, in whose\nnostrils love was the breath of life, this wife of his was honoured\nindeed and much feared, but it was not to her he whispered at dark,\nnor told the secret troubles and joys of his soul. And when he saw her\ndriving down the path, though he marvelled at her beauty, he had no\nword of tender welcome for her, and indeed her face was one flame of\nanger.\n\n\"Here in these heights where thou hidest from me, thy wife,\" she said,\n\"I seek and find thee. Give me thy oath that thou wilt help me.\"\n\nThen said Wotan, \"What ails thee, wife?\"\n\n\"Hunding's cry for vengeance has come to my ears,\" said she. \"And\nwell it might, for, as thou knowest, I am the goddess of marriage and\nmarriage vows. Thus I listened in horror and holy indignation to the\ntale I heard, and I have sworn that Siegmund and Sieglinde, who have\nthus put him to shame so foully and madly, should pay for their sin.\nSo help me, swear that thou wilt help me, that the two may reap their\nright reward. For shameful and impious is the deed that has been done.\"\n\nEven as she spoke a little red flower blossomed at Wotan's feet,\nopening suddenly at the dawn of this sweet spring morning, and above\nhis head two birds mated in mid-air, and his heart was warm within him\nwith the instinct of the spring-time. \"It is the spell of the spring,\"\nhe thought to himself. \"Love and spring drove mad both man and woman,\nand if there is blame, the blame is there.\" Aloud he said--\n\n\"O Fricka, it is spring-time!\" and almost a tear of tenderness for the\nfrail race of men he so loved started to his eye.\n\nBut Fricka answered him in anger. \"The marriage vow has been broken,\"\nshe cried, \"and though that is not all, yet that is enough. Hunding's\nhouse is dishonoured, honoured, and I hate those who have dishonoured\nit.\"\n\n\"And did love hallow that marriage vow?\" cried Wotan. \"Was not\nSieglinde carried by force to her marriage feast? Love's hand signed\nnot the bond, and where love is not, there the most solemn vow turns\nimpious. But a stranger came, and love stirred at last for him and her.\nAnd where love stirs, there is true marriage, and those stirrings of\nlove I abet, I approve.\"\n\n\"Be it so,\" said Fricka; \"let us say that the loveless wedlock is\nunholy, that it is best honoured when broken. But that is not all,\nand thou knowest it. For is it holy that two twins should seek each\nother thus? Ah! Wotan, my head reels and my senses are bewildered\nwhen I think of that. Brother and sister? When has it happened that\na man should marry his neighbour in his mother's womb? When has that\nhappened?\"\n\nBut Wotan looked at her gently.\n\n\"It has happened now,\" he said. \"Wife, is there nought left for us to\nlearn? Thou knowest, thou knowest well that between the two there burns\nthe authentic fire of love. It has happened. Siegmund and Sieglinde\nhave so loved. Therefore, as I do, bless their union and blame it not.\nIt is spring-time too.\"\n\nThen was Fricka's wrath so kindled that it seemed as if she had been\ncalm before and was now angry for the first time, and with storm she\ndescended on him.\n\n\"Then is our godhead perished!\" she cried, \"since thou didst beget\nthy godless Wolsungs. Do you think that I shall follow thee on such a\nroad? For the stones of it are shame, and shameful is the foot that\ntreads thereon. Hunding's cry goes up unanswered, and all that was holy\nthou tramplest on. All this because the twins that thou begottest, in\nunfaithfulness to me thy wife, have dared to do this impious deed.\nVows! what are vows to thee? Thou boldest none sacred. I have ever\nbeen true to thee, and ever thou hast betrayed my truth. There is\nno mountain top that has not seen, no vale that has not concealed\nsome pleasure of thine, pleasure that scorned and dishonoured my\nfaithfulness. When thou wentest to Erda, and begottest the brood of\nValkyries, Brunnhilde the first, I bore it, for Erda was ever noble,\nand such adventure was not altogether base. But now like a common\nman thou goest on thy foul adventures, haunting the forest till men\ncall thee the Wolf, or passing under the name of Walse. There is no\nplumb-line to measure the depths of thy shame, so deep is that abyss.\nThese hast thou begotten of a mere woman, a she-wolf, these twins. And\nnow thou flingest me at the feet of thy she-wolfs litter. Ah, mete\nout the full measure of my shame. Thou hast betrayed me, and now thou\nstampest me beneath thy feet and the feet of thy children of shame.\"\n\nWotan answered her not at once, for indeed there is no use in\nanswering an angry woman, and he knew well that there were certain\nthings that Fricka would never know. For her mind moved not from that\nlittle circle in which it was wont to go round, and all that had not\nhappened, but which was still among the unfound things of the world,\nwas outside her understanding. But Wotan knew that all heaven and\nearth was waiting for a hero who should come, who should make the old\nthings new, and repair that which was outworn. He should be one who was\nutterly free, not sheltered or befriended by the gods, and not serving\ntheir laws. Nor might the gods help in this work, for their work was\nof an earlier day, and he who should come must pass beyond them both\nin thought and deed. Yet as Fricka still said nothing, but stood with\nheaving bosom, he spoke of him who should come whom he knew, though\ndarkly, should be of the wild Wolsungs. Yet he knew also she would\nunderstand not. Nor did she understand, but answered him according to\nher own sightlessness, saying that since all that was done on earth\nwas the work of men, whose life lay in the hands of the gods, what was\nthere a man could do which was forbidden to the gods?\n\n\"For who,\" cried she, \"put might into men except thou, or who but thou\nput courage into their hearts, and strength into their arms? Thou only.\nYet now thou sayest that one will come of thy Wolsung breed who is\noutside and beyond. Dost then think to trick me thus? Surely I know\nthat he, like all other men, must be subservient to thy will. It is\nto shield thy shameful twins that thou sayest this. It is by thy will\nalone he walks.\"\n\n\"Not so,\" said Wotan; \"for when Siegmund seized the sword, he did it\nof his own might. In nought did I help him there. By the might of that\nsword he walks alone, not upheld by my power.\"\n\nThen Fricka, for in her woman's way she was cunning, saw her path.\n\n\"Then shield him no further,\" she said quietly, \"and take back thy\nsword, the sword that thou hast given him.\"\n\n\"How can I?\" said he. \"For Siegmund won it for himself in his need, and\nSiegmund's it is.\"\n\n\"But from thee,\" said she, \"came not only the sword, but the need. In\nthose days, when thou didst fling the sword at the ash-stem, I followed\nhard on thee, and saw thy deed, Who flung it there? Thou, Wotan. Who\nled Siegmund's hand to the hilt? Who but thou? Thou knewest where the\nsword was; in the presence of Sieglinde thou didst place it there. From\nthee, through her, the knowledge of it came to him. How canst thou say\nthen that this Siegmund of thine is the hero that should come, since it\nis through thee he works?\"\n\nThen was Wotan both wroth and sorry, for he knew that Fricka spoke\ntruth, yet he would have shielded Siegmund from her wrath. And she,\nseeing that she shook his will, spoke freely and calmly.\n\n\"Lo, the master does not war with slaves,\" she said, \"nor fight for\nthem. But thou and I, Wotan, are gods and equal. And I, whose soul and\nbody are yet at thy bidding, wilt thou shame me and the vows I uphold\nbefore a mere man? Shall I be a laughter to the scornful, and shall men\nmake merry over my down-fall in their homes? Thou wilt not have it so;\nI know thou wilt not. My godhead is more to thee than that.\"\n\n\"What wilt thou then?\" said he.\n\n\"That thou stand aside from the Wolsung.\"\n\nThen Wotan was sore distressed and very heavy at heart \"Let him go,\"\nsaid he, and his voice was low and troubled; \"I will not stay him, nor\nshalt thou.\"\n\n\"Then shield him not nor shelter him,\" said she, \"when vengeance\nfollows on him.\"\n\nThen did Wotan remember that he had bidden Brunnhilde to aid him, and\nit was ill to fight against Brunnhilde. Thus perhaps might Siegmund be\nsafe. So he swore to Fricka that he would not shield nor shelter him.\nYet Fricka was not yet satisfied.\n\n\"Look in my face, Wotan,\" she said. \"Thou sayest thou wilt not shield\nhim, neither shall thine shield him. No aid must he obtain from thy\nValkyrie maidens.\"\n\n\"The Valkyries go where they will,\" said he, \"and I have no power over\nthem.\"\n\n\"So that was thy thought!\" said Fricka. \"It shall not be so. Thy will\ndirects them; let it direct them that they turn not to Siegmund.\"\n\nThen Wotan clenched his hands together, for this way and that was he\ntorn. On the one side stood Siegmund his son, whom he must needs aid\nfor the sake of the promise he had given with the sword; on the other,\nFricka his wife. And in his agony he cried aloud--\n\n\"How can I slay him? It was he who found my sword.\"\n\n\"Let it be to him only a sword then,\" said Fricka, \"and not the\nsword of Wotan, or break it in his hand, so that Hunding has him\ndefenceless. O, Wotan,\" and as she spoke he knew in his heart her\nnobility and uprightness, for all that she was cold and hard, \"O,\nWotan, thou lovest me not, and I know it, yet shield my honour for\nnever have I brought dishonour on thine. I ever upheld the marriage\nvow, and how would the sons of men laugh, and how would the glory of\nthe gods be diminished, should thy daughter Brunnhilde not uphold it\nthis day. How would lawlessness and unhallowed lust be master among\nmen. By Siegmund's death alone is my honour upheld, for he has sinned\nagainst me. So swear to it, Wotan.\"\n\nEven as she spoke Wotan heard again the joyful war-cry of Brunnhilde,\nwho, supposing that his strife with Fricka was over, was coming nigh\nto where they stood, and he remembered in his heart how so short time\nago he had bade her warn and shelter Siegmund. Yet he could in nought\ngainsay his wife, and in sorrow find heaviness he cast himself down on\nthe rocky seat where he had sat with his maiden. And his voice came\nhollow and broken, like an echo buffeted against rocks.\n\n[Illustration: \"I give thee mine oath!\" said he.]\n\n\"I give thee mine oath!\" said he.\n\nThen having the oath of Wotan which he might not break, Fricka turned\nat once from him, for she had accomplished her purpose, and went where\nshe had left her chariot drawn by rams. Near by was Brunnhilde standing\nwith her horse, and as she passed her--\n\n\"Thy father waits for thee,\" she said. \"Go thee and learn from him\nthat which he has chosen.\" Then mounting her chariot, she lashed the\nrams with her golden whip, and they sped down the mountain-side.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nSIEGMUND'S LOT IS CAST\n\n\nBut Brunnhilde had heard Fricka laugh as she mounted her chariot, the\nwhich boded no good thing to her father Wotan; and as she approached\nhim she saw that he leaned his head on his hand in great heaviness, and\nwas as one utterly cast down.\n\n\"Father, father, what is it?\" she said. \"What sorrow holds thee? Never\nhave I seen thee so.\"\n\nThen Wotan's arm dropped, and his head sank on his bosom. \"I am bound\nby the fetters I have forged,\" said he. \"All are free but I, the lord\nof all. O shame, O bitter ill-hap, and worm that dies not. There is no\nsorrow so heavy as mine!\"\n\nThen did Brunnhilde drop her spear and helmet in sudden alarm and\nforgetfulness, and in the hope to soothe and comfort him, for never had\nshe seen him so. She laid loving hands upon his knees, and sat herself\nat his feet, and asked him tenderly to tell her what had befallen, for\nhis look frightened and amazed her. So she besought him to tell her\nall, for she was ever true to him, and ever had he trusted her. Then by\nslow degrees Wotan aroused himself, and laid a hand on her bright hair,\nwhich he caressed lovingly. But when he spoke his voice seemed to come\nfrom afar, for his mind had been brooding on that which had been long\nago, and on that which time to come should bring out of what had been,\nfor out of the womb of the past is born what shall be. And dim and dark\nwas his voice, even as that on which he thought had been dim and dark,\nand he spoke slowly and with many pauses, of days long dead, and of\ndays yet far off, the heirs of ages not yet born. But through-out he\nlooked earnestly into Brunnhilde's eyes, for she was his most own, and\nwhen he looked there, he saw himself and his own will and purpose.\n\n\"In days of old,\" said he, \"when the first heat of youth was passed,\nI set myself to win the world, and all craft in bargains was mine, and,\nso that I worked my will, I stooped to any falsehood. Yet never for\nlong could I withhold myself from love, and its sweetness ever allured\nmy senses and my might. But Alberich, that son of night, who inhabits\nthe dark places of the earth, had forsworn all love, and since he never\nyielded to it, but cursed it, he won for himself the secret treasure\nof the gold which abode in mid-Rhine, and by its might, for it is the\nworld's wealth, reached his hands about the world. Yet by guile I got\nit from him, and with it I paid the giants who built me the walls of\nWalhalla that are a rein and a bridle to the world. Then once again was\nI safe. Yet Erda gave me words of warning about the ring, and told me\nthat Walhalla itself would fall, yet could tell me nought fully, till\nwith the spell of love upon her she spake. Yet that selfsame spell of\nlove between her and me gave me thyself, Brunnhilde, and thy eight\nsisters of the storm. With you I thought to make Walhalla safe, and I\nbade you slay and bring to be its guardians and the protection of its\nwalls heroes and men of might, who should guard it well. Eternal life I\nbreathed into them, and a mighty host uprose.\"\n\nThen Brunnhilde smiled at him.\n\n\"And have we not done thy bidding?\" she asked. \"What cause for sadness\nis here? For the defenders of Walhalla are many in multitude: all these\nwe have brought thee, as thou didst bid us.\"\n\nThen spake Wotan again, his eyes dwelling ever on Brunnhilde.\n\n\"Moved by that spell of love, Erda told me where fear was. It is from\nAlberich the end will come to the gods, their evening, their dusk,\nif once again he gets the ring. While he has it not, I fear not him\nnor the hosts of night that he brings with him, for well Walhalla is\nguarded by heroes. But in pay for the building of Walhalla I gave it\nto the giant Fafner, who guards it ever and since I gave it him, I may\nnot take it from him, for the bargain I made with him forbids me. Nor\nmust he who shall take it from him owe ought to me; he must be a free\nman, who for his own need, and without help from me, shall wrest it\nfrom Fafner. Ah, where to find him? How direct his course, yet without\naiding or protecting him? His might unaided must accomplish my wish.\nWherever I work, there see I the fruits of my work, that which my hands\nhave made. But he who shall take the treasure from Fafner must be free,\nunfettered, no slave or creation of mine.\"\n\nThen Brunnhilde started up, for she saw what was in Wotan's mind.\n\n\"It is he then, Siegmund the Wolsung, who shall do this thing!\" she\ncried. \"Ever has he been unblessed and unhallowed of the gods.\"\n\nBut Wotan shook his head.\n\n\"So thought I,\" said he, \"and with that thought in my heart, I reared\nhim ever to work against the gods, so that he owed nought to us.\nNothing has he but the sword he himself found. Yet, that was mine.\nIt was I who gave him both sword and the need by which he found\nit. Scornfully Fricka unfolded that to me, piercing my soul to its\nuttermost. And thus I must serve her will.\"\n\nThen wild amaze seized hold on Brunnhilde.\n\n\"Then dost thou forsake Siegmund?\" she cried.\n\nAt that a wild tumult of rage and despair seized on the god, for the\nwords of Erda, which she had told him, grew clear to him.\n\n\"The curse is fallen on me,\" he cried; \"and though I flee from it,\nit still follows me. For when I stole the ring of the Rhine-gold from\nAlberich, he said that what I loved I must needs forsake, and that\nhim whom I trusted I must do to death. Even so it is. Behold the dusk\ndeepens round me, and I hope for one thing only, the end. And on the\nend thinks Alberich, for the wild words of Erda, which never till now\ndid I fathom, grow clear to me. For she said that when the dark enemy\nof love begets a son, then too is begotten the fall of the gods. And\nthis too has happened, for Alberich has lovelessly bought a woman's\nundoing, and already the weeks of her deliverance are numbered, and the\nchild waxes in her womb. Yet I for all my wooing could never beget that\nwhich I need, that free man of whom I spake. Oh! my bitterest blessing\non thy work, Alberich; already I grow wan with the approaching end;\nalready my godhead is but a tawdry mask. Bare thy fangs then: let thy\nhate and thy hunger make meat of me!\"\n\nThe words died on his lips, and despair like a wave overwhelmed him.\nThen Brunnhilde nestled yet nearer to him, and the child-instinct\nwithin her spake, if so be she might comfort him.\n\n\"Father, father,\" she said, \"what can thy child do?\"\n\nThen Wotan laughed bitterly.\n\n\"Fight Fricka's battles,\" said he, \"and range thyself with her\nmarriage vows and plighted troths. Siegmund is not the free man my\nsoul longs for. So range thyself with Fricka's champion, the noble\nHunding. Even so: death is decreed for Siegmund; be swift and brave to\ncompass that. Thou wilt need all thy boldness, my child, for he is no\ncoward whom Walse taught in the woods, and swift is his sword. Nor wilt\nthou find a foeman who fears thee; his eye will flinch not, though he\nbeholds thee in all thy strength and terror.\"\n\nScarcely then could Brunnhilde believe what she seemed to hear, for\nshe knew that her father loved Siegmund, and that the Wolsung was dear\nto his soul. Ever had he taught her to love him, for Siegmund was\ndauntless of heart, and knew not what fear was.\n\n\"It cannot be,\" she cried, \"never can I lift my arm against him!\"\n\nThen Wotan rose in wrath, for it was as if his will disobeyed him when\nBrunnhilde was rebel, for indeed the maid was none other than his will.\n\n\"Thou darest? Thou darest?\" he cried. \"And does fear not look in thine\neyes at the thought of disobedience? Am I a mock to thee? Indeed\nthere will be for thee an end of mocking if thou rousest my wrath.\nFor there is woe to any with whom Wotan is wrath, for I walk with the\nthunder at my call, and my hand holds and steers the lightning. Think\nthou of that, and gave good heed. Thou knowest my will; see that thou\nperformest it. Siegmund is numbered with the dead, and by Brunnhilde's\nhand shall that numbering be accomplished.\"\n\nAnd he stormed forth in fury, the lightning flickering about his\npath, and left Brunnhilde there.\n\n[Illustration: Very slowly she armed herself.]\n\nNever before had he gone from her in anger, and she sat long where he\nhad left her, wondering what this should mean, and what the day should\nbring forth. Oftentimes in hour of war had she seen him girt about with\nfury, but now it was she whom his rage threatened. Then she stooped\ndown, and picked up again her spear and helmet and shield which she had\nlaid on the ground when she spake with Wotan, and very slowly, with\nthe joy of war altogether gone from her heart, she armed herself. For\nindeed her heart was not in this fight, and she went out to it with no\njoyful war-cry as was her wont. For the battle was against her friend,\nwhom Wotan had ever taught her to love, and the wild Wolsung Siegmund\nhad all her life been dear to her. Yet must Wotan's best be obeyed.\n\nSo she turned and would have gone on her joyless errand, when suddenly\nshe was aware that two were approaching up the rocky height; and as\nthey came more nigh she saw they were none other than Siegmund and\nSieglinde. Then pity so seized on her that she was but as wax, and,\nlest her will should fail utterly, she turned again quickly and went to\nthe cavern hard by where she had tethered her horse on the coming of\nFricka. Heavily she went to him, for the work before her was bitter and\ngrievous to her.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nTHE FIGHT OF SIEGMUND\n\n\nSwiftly came Sieglinde up the rocky path, and Siegmund followed hard\nafter her, bidding her rest and not fare so wildly on; for after that\nthe spell of spring and of love had so wrought within her that she\nrecked nothing of leaving the house and hearth of Hunding, and the\ntransport and sweet madness of her love had been fulfilled, horror\nand dread had seized the woman's heart, and she was distraught with\nunspeakable dismay at her wild adventure. Then had she risen up from\nhis side in the middle of the spring night, even while he, filled\nfull of love, was sleeping, to escape from what she had done. But at\nher stirring he had awoke, and through the hours betwixt that and day\nhad he followed after her, she still flying from him through field\nand forest. For at first on that evening of yesterday, which in the\nmorning's light seemed to her so long ago, the torrent of her love had\ncarried her unthinking, but now it seemed to her that her deed was\naltogether unholy. Utterly had she loved the man, and utterly was his\nlove hers, and so great was the might of that and the transport of its\npower, that in its first outpouring it seemed to her that all else was\nof no import beside it. But afterwards she had thought on what she had\ndone, and shame and horror burned within her with as fierce a flame.\nLoveless had her marriage with Hunding been, yet marriage it was,\nand hallowed by the ordinance of the gods. But this was lawlessness\nincarnate, and unnatural wedlock. Yet in her woman's heart she blamed\nSiegmund not at all; the blame in her mind was wholly hers. She had\nbrought shame on herself, but that was a small thing compared to the\nshame in which she had made him a partaker.\n\nBut now for very weariness her limbs could bear her no further, and\nat the top of the rocky path nigh to where Wotan and Brunnhilde had\nsat that night, she faltered, and it was his arm that saved her from\nfalling.\n\n\"Wait, wait,\" he whispered. \"Speak to me, and let us have done with\nthis dumbness of fear. Thou art safe; my arm encompasseth thee; there\nis no fear while thou leanest on my breast.\"\n\nAt his touch, again the eternal woman of her nature awoke, and as\nhe led her very gently to the very seat where Wotan had sat with\nBrunnhilde by his knee, she clung passionately to him, and gazing long\ninto his face, embraced him. Yet even while her lips met his, the\nhorrors of the night rose insurgent within her, and again she flung\nherself off from him, shame branding her, as a felon is branded.\n\n\"Siegmund, Siegmund!\" she cried. \"What have we done? Shame on me, shame\non me!\"\n\n\"Shame there has been, Sieglinde,\" said he, \"and that when thou didst\nabide in the house of Hunding. But that shame shall I soon wash away\nwith his blood, and in that crimson stream shall it be cleansed. Ah,\nfare not on so wildly; wait here, for I am well assured that he will\ncome here in pursuit, and here also shall he meet the fate which has\nbeen appointed by him who in my sorest need granted me to find the\nsword. O sword of my need,\" cried he, and his fingers tightened on its\nhilt, \"not in vain have I called on the name of vengeance. Surely I\nwill repay.\"\n\nThen was she a little quieted at his loving touch, and at the\nfierceness of surety of his hate towards Hunding, but soon she started\nup and listened.\n\n\"Horns, I hear horns!\" she cried, \"and the shouts of the pursuers. The\nshouts of the pursuers sound ever nearer, and strike the sky and echo\nfrom the hills. Hunding has woke from his night-draught, and is hot of\nfoot on the trail. He calls on his kindred to help him, and loosens the\nhounds of hunting. They nose thy trail, and thirstily they give voice,\nand their thirst waits to be assuaged by blood.\"\n\nLoudly and in panic terror she cried, but at the end her voice failed,\nand her arm outflung dropped nerveless, and over her weary eyes drooped\nthe shelter of her eyelids.\n\n\"Siegmund, where art thou?\" she murmured. \"Where art thou? I search\nfor thy look; oh, let it light on me again; leave me not, Siegmund, oh,\nleave me not. Hark, hark! again I hear that deep baying of the hounds\nof death; they thirst for thy blood, and their fangs white and sharp\ngrow red with the meat of their hunting. They reck not of thy sword, so\nfling it away. Hide, let us hide where none shall find us. Thy sword is\nshattered; what toy-thing is this?--thou fallest reeling ... Siegmund\n... Siegmund....\"\n\nAt that her head drooped and she sank like a thing broken in his arms.\nIt was in vain that he tried to rouse her, and only by the rise and\nfall of her bosom did he know she lived. So very gently--for, after the\nlabour and travel of the night, it might be that she would sleep--he\nlaid her back on the ground, and made for her a pillow of his knee, to\nrest her head. But she moved not, nor opened her eyes, yet, for her\nbosom still rose gently and fell, he comforted himself, and bending\nover her kissed her on the forehead. Thus they sat, and he grieved over\nher.\n\nBut by now had Brunnhilde put bridle again on to her horse Grane, and\nled him lightly out of the cavern, and came upon Siegmund and his bride\nsitting thus. And he was aware of her coming, and looked up, and saw\nher glorious face; but there was no smile there, for the work before\nher gave no joy to her. Gravely she looked at him, and her heart was\nstirred with sorrow for the deed that her father had laid on her to do,\nand her eyes burned large with doom.\n\n\"Siegmund, I am here,\" she said, \"and from here soon I lead thee. Thou\nseest that I am near thee?\"\n\nAnd Siegmund answered: \"Yes, but I know thee not,\" and a strange cold\nheaviness was lead in his limbs and in his eye.\n\n\"I come near to those whom death comes near to,\" said she, \"and none\nothers see me. He into whose eyes I look stays not in the light. With me\nthou goest, and thou goest with me far.\"\n\nThen something of the great calm with which death is ever girt about,\nstruck on Siegmund's heart, but he was not afraid.\n\n\"And where goest thou?\" he asked.\n\n\"I go to Walhalla,\" said she, \"where the great father waits thee.\nThere lovingly will the hands of dead heroes greet thee; with hands\noutstretched and with smile of welcome will they greet thee.\"\n\n\"And shall I find there Walse, the Wolsung's father?\" said he in wonder.\n\n\"His face too shall greet thee.\"\n\n\"And will there be a woman there too, to greet me?\" asked he.\n\n\"Yea, surely,\" said she. \"The maidens of his will are there, and she\nwho will hand thee the gladsome wine is Wotan's daughter. Red is that\nwine, and with it are the hearts of heroes made glad.\"\n\nBut it was not after Wotan's daughter that Siegmund asked, and again he\nsaid:\n\n\"O most holy and austere of maidens, Wotan's child, truth is written in\nthine eyes, and truth thou wilt tell me. It is not of such I ask, but\nof my bride Sieglinde. Will she be there?\"\n\nBut Brunnhilde shook her head.\n\n\"Death comes not for her yet,\" she said, \"and she shall not be there.\"\n\nThen Siegmund laughed.\n\n\"Then get thee back to Walhalla,\" cried he, \"and give my greeting\nto the high walls of Wotan, and to him who sits therein and is lord\nthereof. And greet for me Walse\"--for he knew not that Walse his father\nwas none other than Wotan--\"and greet the many heroes and the maidens\nof the will of the highest. But I come not after thee.\"\n\nThen Brunnhilde was very sorry, yet what was to be, was to be.\n\n\"Siegmund,\" she said, \"thou hast looked on me, and with me thou must\ngo. Lightly thou reckest of mortal foes, for thy limbs are strong, but\nthe wise man wars not against death. I am here to claim thee for him.\"\n\nBut though a chill seemed to fall round Siegmund, as if the sun had\npassed behind a cloud, yet was he not afraid; and, lo! his dear burden\nstill leaned at his knee.\n\n\"I come not,\" he said, \"for where Sieglinde is, in weal or woe, there\nI abide, and go not thence. Thy face daunts me not, I shrink not before\nthy glance, though bright it is with the brightness of danger. Besides,\nwho is it that deals death to me?\"\n\n\"The hand of Hunding,\" she said. \"For thus--at last--the lot was cast.\"\n\nBut Siegmund only smiled, and his fingers dwelt lovingly on the\nsword-hilt.\n\n\"I fear not that,\" he said, \"for it is by my hand that he will fall,\nand if thou seekest a dead man, I will give thee a corpse, but not\nmine. Look at my sword, for he who let me gain it, promised my safety.\nThus thy threats and thy warning are idle words, the buzzing of a fly.\"\n\nThen Brunnhilde's face grew stern and set.\n\n\"He who let thee gain the sword,\" she cried in a loud voice, \"now is\ndetermined otherwise, and has decreed thy death. Thus the magic of the\nsword is a thing of nought, a shadow that has passed away.\"\n\nBut at her raised voice, Siegmund forgot death and the sword and all\nelse, and feared only that she would wake Sieglinde, who now slept\ngently.\n\n\"Be still, be still,\" he whispered, \"and wake her not.\"\n\nAnd he bent over her, and sorrowed for her, for it seemed to him that\nall the world was gathered against her whom he loved so well, and that\nhe alone, for whom she had braved the wrath of men and gods, was on her\nside. Should then he forsake her? And if, as the maid had told him,\nthe giver of the sword was now unfaithful, and decreed him death, then\nhe would have none of his Walhalla; Hella were sweeter to his troubled\nsoul. High burned his anger at this unfaithfulness, and he turned to\nthe maid who stood watching him.\n\n\"If then death is decreed for me,\" he said, \"think you I will be at\nease in Walhalla? Nay, Hella rather than such peace.\"\n\nThen Brunnhilde's stem glance softened, and she marvelled that he so\nloved the woman.\n\n\"Then is eternal joy so worthless to thee?\" she asked him softly. \"Dost\nthou desire nothing but the woman who is sleeping there? Is nought else\nsweet to thy soul, and nought else desirable?\"\n\nAnd he looked at her with bitterness, and marked the softened glance of\nher eye. Yet though she appeared so young and so maidenly, her heart\nmust needs be utterly cold, since she did not comprehend how a woman\nfilled the heart of the man who loved her.\n\n\"Dost thou mock me?\" he said. \"For what else could I care than that\nwhich lies here? I think thou art a foe to me, and would gladly see\nharm and woe come to me. Be it so; and may my grief satisfy the greed\nand hunger of thy heart. But as for Walhalla--it is idle for thee to\nname it to me. Dost thou not see? Here is my heaven and my rest.\"\n\nThen she began to understand the need of his heart, and with that she\nfelt a tenderness for both him and the woman which was new to her.\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" she said, \"I feel what thou feelest. But, Siegmund, what\nmust be, must be. Leave her then to me. Safely and surely will I ward\nher and keep all harm from her.\"\n\nAnd she would have lifted Sieglinde up and taken her to some\nhiding-place of safety, but he stopped her.\n\n\"Stay,\" said he, \"she is mine, mine, and no other shall touch her. If\nso be that I must die, as thou sayest, it is better, it is better--for\nall the whole world is against her--that she should die, here, now. I\nwill slay her myself as she sleeps, and death will come softly to her\nas a dream. Thus she will be at peace.\"\n\nThen did the tumult and trouble in Brunnhilde's heart seethe and stir.\n\n\"No, no!\" she cried. \"Listen to me, for thou speakest wild words.\nThe sacred pledge of love which thou hast given, for that I plead.\nSiegmund, Siegmund, thou canst not slay thy son!\"\n\nYet he drew the sword, and brandished it.\n\n\"His is the blame,\" he cried, \"who promised me victory with this\nsword, who now turns his back on me, faithless and untrue. Yet shall it\naid me, for that with it I can give peace to her. Strike then, sword of\nneed, sever both lives at once.\"\n\nBut at the sight of his sword uplifted to strike, all the woman in\nBrunnhilde rose invincible, and the solemn command of Wotan that she\nshould fight for Hunding weighed lighter than chaff. In a moment her\nmind was made, and counting not the cost, she knew that she must needs\nbefriend Siegmund and fight for him, and the thunders and terrors of\nWotan had no weight with her. And with a cry she stayed his arm.\n\n\"Ah, I break,\" she cried. \"I cannot do the deed that was laid on me.\nShe shall live, she shall live, and instead of death I will bring\nthee the joy of victory. No longer fight I for Hunding; it is thee,\nSiegmund, whom my shield will shelter. So up, up; already the horns of\nbattle sound nearer. What shall be, I cannot tell, but the sword thou\nwieldest is good steel, and the shield of me, Brunnhilde, will guard\nthee in the coming fight. Hail to thee, Siegmund, hail! At the fight I\nawait thee.\"\n\nAll her face was afire with human love and pity, and so great a change\nwas there from the look of that stern cold maiden and her pitiless\nbeauty, that Siegmund could scarce believe that this was the same\nBrunnhilde. But at her words, joy and gladness uplifted him, and his\nheart, erstwhile full of despair and bitterness, was once more strong\nand hopeful. But Brunnhilde tarried not, for indeed, as she said, the\nhorns of battle sounded near, but swung herself on to her horse, and\nrode swiftly off among the rocks towards the horns and approaching\nbattle, and the noise of her horse's hoofs sounded fainter, and then\nwas silent.\n\nNow as they thus spoke together, behold the heavens had grown very\nblack, and over the bright aspect of the sky had ridden swiftly up the\nstorm-rack, low and sullen-looking, and torn into streamers and ribands\nof wrath. Already the hills and vales beyond had been entirely blotted\nout, and by now the clouds had reached even to that rocky ridge not\nfar from where Siegmund sat, while mingled with the trouble and menace\nof the heavens came the blast of the horns of battle sounding ever\nnearer, and Siegmund knew that it was time for him to be gone to meet\nthe black foe who awaited him. Then very gently he got up, and without\nwaking Sieglinde, laid her back against the rocky seat, and once more\nbent over her, to see how she fared. The blessed balm of sleep had\nbeen spread over her eyes, and she was at rest, and her heart was\nunconscious of the wild alarms of war. And Siegmund wondered whether it\nwas the maiden, who seemed so fierce and cold, but whose soul at the\nend had been touched with so gentle and womanly a pity, who had shed\nthis gift on the woman, thinking that the clash of swords and the din\nof battle would daunt her. Then even as he bent over her she smiled in\nher sleep, as if some happy dream had come to her. So he kissed her\nvery gently on the forehead, marvelling that the trumpet-calls, which\ngrew swiftly nearer, disturbed her not, and whispered to her--\n\n\"Sleep sound, beloved, till the battle be overpast, and peace, the\npeace of victory, welcome thy waking.\"\n\nThen for the last time he turned from her, for peace was not yet,\nuntil Nothung his sword had spoken sharp words with its flaming\ntongue. Swiftly he strode up the rocky ridge, where the embattled\nthunder-clouds swallowed him up, nor was there any fear in his heart:\nonly he longed to see Hunding face to face, and drive vengeance home.\n\nBut Sieglinde lay there smiling in her sleep, for it was even as\nSiegmund had supposed, and she was a child again living with her\nmother in the forest. Yet even as Siegmund left her, the tranquillity\nof her sleep was shaken, and it seemed to her that her father and the\nboy Siegmund were in the forest together, and though the hour was\nlate, they had not yet returned. And she cried to her mother that her\nheart misgave her, for she was troubled with the looks and the words\nof certain strangers. Then in her dream the sweet air of the forest\ngrew foul and black, and smoke swirled silently out of the woods, and\ntongues and fingers of flame came nearer, and the house where they\ndwelt caught fire. Then aloud she cried on Siegmund to save her, and\nwith her own cry awoke. Yet was it not perhaps her own cry that woke\nher, but the sudden and sharp din of thunder near by, and starting up\nshe saw she was alone, and all round her were storm-clouds of awful\nblackness, and from one to another shot the fires of lightning, and the\nthunder bellowed when it saw them. And mixed with the lightnings and\nthunders were the red cries of the horns of battle. Then, and her heart\nstood still when she heard, from not far off came the voice of Hunding,\nwhich she knew well and hated.\n\n\"Wehwalt, Wehwalt!\" it cried, calling her beloved by the name he had\nshed as trees shed their leaves in autumn. \"Where are thou? Wait for\nme; I am coming swiftly; else shall my hounds make thee stay.\"\n\nThen in answer came the voice she knew and loved; \"Think not to hide\nfrom me, Hunding,\" it cried, \"for all that the storm is so black and\nblinding. The father of the gods himself shall not hide thee from me.\nStay where thou art and I will surely find thee.\"\n\nAnd his voice grew louder as he spake, so she knew that he was coming\nnearer.\n\nThen from the ridge close behind came Hunding's voice again, not a\nstone's-throw off, yet in the thick darkness she could see nought.\n\n\"O shameful wooer!\" it cried. \"In Fricka's hand is thy lot set.\"\n\nAnd immediately Siegmund answered, being also come to the selfsame\nridge--\n\n\"Still dost thou think I am weaponless, coward and fool that thou art?\nThinkest thou to terrify me by thy woman-champion? Fight me, fight me.\nRemember thou the sword in thy house which none could move. Lightly I\nunsheathed it, and its tongue shall lick up thy life-blood; for thy\nlife-blood it thirsts, and soon will I give it to drink.\"\n\nThen came a flash of lightning from the cloud, and Sieglinde saw them\nas phantoms on the edge of the ridge already at fight And she rushed\ntowards it, not being able to bear that sight, calling loudly on them\nto stay, or first to kill her, and then settle their quarrel. But ere\nshe was come to the ridge, a blinding light broke out of the cloud\nabove the head of Siegmund, so strong and glorious that she was dazzled\nand fell back from before it. But in the middle of that light there\nappeared Brunnhilde floating there, and lo! her shield was held out so\nthat it protected Siegmund and sheltered him. And she cried loudly to\nher hero, in a fierce merriment--\n\n\"Have at him, Siegmund; thy sword is safe under my shield.\"\n\nThen was Siegmund's heart uplifted, and he drew back his arm for a\ndeadly stroke at Hunding, when even as it was about to fall, right\nover Hunding's head broke out a red and lurid light, full of wrath and\nanger, and in the midst stood Wotan, standing over the other, with his\nspear outstretched over against Siegmund. And in the voice at which all\nearth and heaven trembles--\n\n\"Thy sword is shivered, Siegmund,\" said he. \"Wotan's spear is\nstretched against thee. Sink thou back from it.\"\n\nThen did Brunnhilde quail in panic terror before her father, and\nher shield no longer covered Siegmund. And the mighty blow of his sword\nstruck on that outstretched spear and was shivered, and into his breast\ndid Hunding thrust his sword, so that he fell and moved no more. And\nSieglinde, beholding, gave one bitter cry, and sank swooning to the\nground. But as Siegmund fell, the great light which had shone round\nBrunnhilde was swallowed up in darkness, and the red light round Wotan\nwas extinguished also. And under cover of the darkness Brunnhilde,\nthough stricken sore with the fear of the wrath of Wotan, yet was\nmindful of the woman Sieglinde, whom she had sworn to befriend, and she\nstole down from the ridge crouching, yet firm of purpose, to her side.\n\n[Illustration: \"Wotan's spear is stretched against thee.\"]\n\n\"To horse! to horse!\" she cried; and seeing that Sieglinde's senses\nwere gone from her, she gathered her up in the strength of her noble\nwomanhood, and with that burden in her arms mounted her horse Grane and\ngalloped off away from the open places that she might hide her from the\nwrath to come. Nor was she too soon, for presently after the clouds\nwere parted and rolled away, and lo! on the ridge stood Wotan, and at\nhis feet lay Siegmund. And as Wotan looked at him his godlike mind was\ntorn with agony and woe unspeakable. As yet Hunding saw not the god,\nfor his eyes were not opened, and cruelly with his foot on the man he\nwrenched out his sword from his breast. And at that, seeing that he who\nhad fallen was noble, and the other but a black cur from the forest,\nWotan turned to him and opened his eyes.\n\n\"Get thee hence, slave,\" said he, \"and tell Fricka that by the spear of\nWotan is her vengeance wrought. Begone!\"\n\nAnd in contempt he waved his hand, and before that withering scorn\nHunding sank down dead. Then suddenly fierce anger seized Wotan, for he\nthought of what Brunnhilde had done, and how she disobeyed his command,\nand made scorn of his words.\n\n\"Woe to her, woe to her!\" he cried. \"Dire and dread shall be her\nportion for this day's work. With the reined lightning and the bridled\nthunder follow I after her, swift on the wings of the storm.\"\n\nAnd at his word the winds of heaven and all the hurricanes of the air\nrushed to his bidding, and seated in his chariot of storms he drove on\nBrunnhilde's trail.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nTHE FLIGHT OF BRUNNHILDE\n\n\nNow on that day on which Brunnhilde disobeyed the behest of Wotan, and\ninstead of slaying Siegmund, and bringing his soul to Walhalla where he\nwould abide with the other heroes, shielded him, yet to little purpose,\nthe glorious company of the Valkyries, who were eight in number, and\nall her sisters, being likewise the daughters of Wotan and born of\nErda, were out to battle and fight with the heroes of the sons of men,\nwhom they bore to Walhalla, there to defend its lofty walls and sit at\nwine with their fellows. All that day had they ridden on their quests,\nand when it was towards evening they began to gather, as they had\nappointed, on the top of a certain rocky height, there to number their\nspoils, and go all together, a wild and joyous company, to the halls of\nWalhalla, there to gladden the heart of their father Wotan with what\nthey had done.\n\nHigh and open to the winds of heaven was their trysting-place, a\nregion of bleak mountain land, a very crown of the world. Steeply rose\nits barren cliffs on all sides but one, and here a pine wood clung\nto the hillside, in the shade and shelter of which they might tether\ntheir horses, as they waited for the gathering of their sisters. Great\nstorms had raged all day, and as evening came on their violence was in\nno whit abated, but seemed to grow ever fiercer. But little did the\nValkyries heed such menaces, for their joy was in storm, and they drank\ndeep from whirlwinds as a thirsty man will drink of a bowl of wine, and\nfeel his strength come back to him; and the swifter the blasts screamed\nover the terror-stricken earth, the swifter did the Valkyries ride on\ntheir errands, and the louder and more joyous sounded their fierce,\nglad battle-cries of death. High and untamed of heart were they, and\nmaidens all of them, for of men they had no thought, save only that\nmen were the game and quarry of their hunting, and they loved a strong\nman's strength only because thus the fighting was the fiercer, and\nthe nobler and braver was the foeman whose soul they should carry to\nWalhalla, there to have life eternal breathed into it by Wotan. But of\nthe fierceness of love they knew nought, nor cared to know: danger and\ndeath had brighter eyes for them than a lover.\n\nAll day had their trysting-place stood empty and buffeted by the\nwinds and rains, for far distant were the quests on which the sisters\nhad gone, and wild and shrill was the music of the storm. Now with a\nscream the wind would awake and yell among the rocks, and the beating\nof the rain was like the sound of the drums that call to war. Then the\nshrillness of the storm would abate, and for a while it would moan\nwith low and flute-like notes among the stems of the pine-trees, and\nwhisper among their nodding tops, as if with a false promise of peace.\nThen in fresh anger, as of hounds a-yelp, it would break out again,\nand with shrill trumpetings scream among the sharp edges of the rocks,\nor vibrate like to a twanged string round the stumps of trees and\nweep like some lost soul among the thick-stemmed bushes. But towards\nevening, though the rain abated not, nor the mad riot of the winds, a\nman might hear very far away the rhythmical tramping of some deathless\nsteed, as one of the wild Valkyries approached, or far away a light\nwould break out among the clouds showing where another rode lightly on\nthe very winds and airs of heaven. Thus flying and galloping from every\nquarter of the world, that glorious company began to assemble, and the\nstorm screamed welcome to them with many voices.\n\nLegion were the questions each had to ask of the other, as to how\nshe had sped that day, and what hero she brought back slung across\nher saddle-bows, and joyful were the greetings with which each hailed\nthe other. Some, too, had brought with them the horses of the slain,\nand loud were the neighings and whinnyings in the wood as horse smelt\nfilly, and cocked his ear and swished his tail for very joy of the\nlife that was in him. But the noblest of all were the steeds of the\nValkyries, and these they tied up to the trees while they waited for\ntheir full company to gather; and they cared for them tenderly, for\nit was by the deathless strength of their noble steeds that they\nrode so swiftly on their wide errands of death. Again and yet again\nflared the wild light of their approach, and on the saddle of each was\nswung a hero, for all had prospered that day, and joyfully they spoke\ntogether of the gathering there would be in Walhalla that night when\nthey returned triumphant, and how Wotan would be well pleased at their\nprowess; while high rose the mirth at the table where sat the heroes,\nas their new brethren made whole again, and filled with eternal life by\nthe power of Wotan, sat them down in wonder and amaze at the glory and\njoy that awaited them, when their eyes were opened after the sleep of\ndeath, to behold the dawning of the everlasting day.\n\nAnd by now all the maidens were gathered but one only, for Brunnhilde,\nthe eldest and the most noble of them all, had not yet returned from\nher quest, and the sisters wondered that she should delay so long. But\none, thinking that they were all gathered, asked another why yet they\ndelayed, for the sun was near its setting, and it was time they set\nforth to go to Walhalla with their spoils.\n\nBut she to whom her sister spake, replied--\n\n\"Not yet are we all gathered, for Brunnhilde comes not yet. Her deed\nto-day, as I know, my sisters, was with the Wolsung Siegmund, and she\ntarries long, for he fights for a woman, and men in such case are\never fiercest Yet may we not go to Walhalla till she is come, for\nwhat welcome, think you, we should get from Wotan, came we before him\nlacking his heart's darling? Dear are we all to him, but she is the\ndearest, and to us the dearest of all is she.\"\n\nMeantime another of the eight, Siegrune, had climbed to the topmost\nridge of rock, and looked out as best she might through the blinding\nstorm, to see if Brunnhilde approached. Then suddenly the others below\nheard her shout of joyful war-cry, with which the sisters were wont to\nhail each other.\n\n\"She comes, she comes!\" she cried, \"and the speed of her coming is like\nthe passage of the lightning, and as thunder the rides on the wings of\nthe wind.\"\n\nThen they all called aloud on her, and another sister, Waltraute,\nswiftly ran up to where Siegrune sat.\n\n\"See, she rides to the wood, and her good Grane labours sore. How spent\nhe seems with her headlong speed.\"\n\nAnd yet a third climbed up beside the two others.\n\n\"The wildest, fiercest ride that ever Brunnhilde sped,\" she cried.\n\"But see! what lies on her saddle? No hero is it.\"\n\nThen as the maid came nearer, riding on the wings of the storm, they\nsaw that it was no hero indeed she carried, but a woman; and swiftly\nthey hurried down to the wood to meet her, for that a Valkyrie should\nbring back a woman as spoil was in truth a new thing. And as they ran\ndown they questioned one with another what this could be. They saw,\ntoo, that her good horse Grane was utterly spent with the gallop, and\nthis, too, was a new thing, for Grane had the stoutest heart and the\nmost untiring limbs of any horse in earth or heaven.\n\nThen came Brunnhilde towards them through the trees, giving her\nsupport and strength to the woman Sieglinde, whom she led. Round her\nneck was Sieglinde's arm laid, yet scarcely even so could she put foot\nbefore foot, for like Grane the strength of her body was spent utterly,\nand her soul was sore with all that had come upon her. Then with hands\noutstretched in entreaty came Brunnhilde to them; and that, too, was a\nstrange thing and a new, for of them all she was the blithest.\n\n[Illustration: Brunnhilde brings Sieglinde to the Valkyries' Meeting\nplace.]\n\n\"Save me, sisters,\" cried she, \"for harm follows hard after me, and I\nwho never yet fled from any man fly now, and behind me in thunder and\nrelentless pursuit follows the War-father.\"\n\nAnd down she sank on a seat of rock, still supporting her whom she led.\n\nBut wonder and amazement seized on the sisters, and it seemed that she\nmust be distraught and her wits, astray that she spoke so, for how\nshould Wotan, whose darling she was, and whose very will she mirrored,\nbe up in wrath against her?\n\nThen Brunnhilde cried out again--\n\n\"Run to the topmost ridge, my sisters, and tell me if ye see aught.\nLook to the northward and say if the father comes, and if he is yet in\nsight, for I have fled before him. All day I have fled before him, and\nmy heart is gone from me, for he rides furiously.\"\n\nThen did the sisters do her bidding, and lo! to the northward there\nrose in the sky a great cloud, separate from the storm down which\nBrunnhilde had steered, and it rose high and black and moved very\nswiftly, and out of the midst of it came thunderings and lightnings,\nnor could they doubt but that this was Wotan riding on the clouds, his\nchariot. Then returned they and told Brunnhilde what they had seen, and\nshe was very sore afraid, for she too knew that fast in pursuit came\nWotan from the north, and that he came in wrath and terrible anger. And\nagain she cried--\n\n\"Save me, my sisters, and shield the woman. Ye know not who she is,\nbut I will tell you all and quickly, for there is no time to lose.\nSieglinde is it I bring, the sister of Siegmund the Wolsung and his\nbride. Wotan this day, for Fricka's sake, doomed to death the Wolsung,\nand bid me forsake him whom ever I had loved. And obey I could not, for\nmy heart allowed me not, and instead of forsaking him, and fighting\nagainst him, I sheltered him with my invincible shield. But on the\nother side fought Wotan, and against his spear was Siegmund's sword\nshattered. Then fear seized me, and I fell back, so that my shield no\nlonger sheltered him, and by Hunding's sword did Siegmund fall. And\nwith this woman fled I before the wrath that is coming, and hither I\ncame, for with your help maybe the fulness of his displeasure shall be\nturned from my head.\"\n\nThen were all the sisters filled with sorrow and amazement that she had\ndisobeyed the word of Wotan, and scarce could they believe that she had\ndared to do this thing, for that Wotan's word should not be obeyed was\na thing unthinkable, and they were sorely grieved. And ever from the\nnorth, like night, came the storm-chariot of Wotan nearer, and they\nknew the growing roar of the thunder to be the whinnying of the wild\nhorses that he drove.\n\nBut Brunnhilde looked on Sieglinde, and as she looked all fear for\nherself was merged in pity for her, and again she spake to her sisters.\n\n\"Sisters, sisters, woe and destruction waits this woman if she abides\nthe coming of Wotan, for with fire and wrath and the utmost terror of\nhis face he wars against the Wolsungs. So, for my horse Grane is spent,\nlend me, I pray you, one of yours, that with her I may flee again and\nmake her safe.\"\n\nThen, though they all loved Brunnhilde, and she entreated each in\nturn, yet none would do this, for Wotan was their father, and not even\nat Brunnhilde's prayer could they turn from him. Thus she knew not\nwhich way to turn for help, and she bent over Sieglinde, and for pity\nof her and for sorrow she kissed her and embraced her lovingly. And at\nthat caress Sieglinde, who till now had taken no part or lot in this\nwild war of words, but had sat as one who saw not nor felt, looked up\ninto Brunnhilde's eyes, and saw all the sorrowful loving-kindness which\nsat there, and made such softness in her eyes.\n\n\"It is enough,\" she said, \"for death, now Siegmund is dead, terrifies\nme not at all, and I would not that harm came to thee for my sake.\nWould that some blow in that strife had fallen on me, so that I might\nhave died with him. Indeed I will not be parted from him. So, O thou\nholy and dear maiden, who hast been so tender to me, let me not live\nand curse thy tenderness, but hearken to my prayer, and strike me to\nthe heart with thy sword. Strike strongly of thy strength.\"\n\nAnd Brunnhilde spoke low to her and earnestly. \"Ah, not so, not so,\"\nshe said. \"Cast not his love away, the pledge of which he has given\nthee. For hidden deep in thee lies another life; from thy womb shall\nspring a Wolsung.\"\n\nThen did the mother awake in the woman, and all her face was flushed as\nwith sunrise by a holy joy. Though she had no fears for herself, yet\nit could not be that the begotten of Siegmund should perish, and she\nthought of her unborn babe.\n\n\"Ah, save me and shelter me,\" she cried, \"and shelter my helpless babe.\nO, ye maidens, I call you to save me and hide me from the wrath of\nWotan.\"\n\nThen suddenly came the voice of Waltraute from the topmost rock. \"The\nstorm is at hand,\" she cried. \"Get thee hence, ere it fall on thee.\"\n\nAt that the others cried to Brunnhilde to get hence with the woman,\nfor they dare not ward her from Wotan, and Sieglinde fell on her knees,\nand as mother of a child that should yet be born, besought Brunnhilde\nto save her for the sake of her motherhood that should be.\n\nThen did Brunnhilde commune swiftly with herself, for lacking a horse\nshe could not hope to flee with the woman before the face of Wotan. Yet\nwhen she spake her voice trembled, for she was afraid. But by no other\nway could she save Sieglinde and that holy seed.\n\n\"Get thee away alone,\" said she, \"and flee softly and swiftly from the\nwrath. But I abide here so that in wrath against me he may delay his\nfurther pursuit. Here and on me will that full flood break, and here\nwill it pour itself forth, and in the meantime shalt thou make thyself\nsafe against his pursuit.\"\n\nAnd for the sake of her child, Sieglinde pressed her hands in thanks.\n\n\"And whither shall I flee from the wrath?\" she asked.\n\nThen Brunnhilde turned again to her sisters. \"O help me here,\" she\nsaid, \"for in this in no way do ye cross the will of Wotan. Say, which\nof you have journeyed eastward this day?\"\n\nAnd Siegrune answered: \"I, and eastward lies there a great wood where\nthe giant Fafner guards the ring which was made from the Rhine-gold.\nThat none should know it is he, he has taken the likeness of a mighty\ndragon, and in his lair he guards the ring. Yet it is no place for a\nhelpless woman.\"\n\n\"Nor meet for a helpless woman is it to abide the wrath of Wotan,\"\nanswered Brunnhilde. \"And that wood, well know I, Wotan loves not, nor\never does he venture in its shade, for he thinks that there lurkes evil\nfor him, and dark is the womb of fate.\"\n\nEven as she spoke again, Waltraute shouted from the rock. \"Wotan is\nvery near,\" she cried; \"hear ye not the roar of his coming?\"\n\nThen Brunnhilde trembled, but delayed not, and taking hold of Sieglinde\nshe showed her the way she must follow.\n\n\"So begone!\" she cried, \"and set thy face ever eastwards. Great indeed\nis the burden that thou bearest within thee, so let thy heart be great\nalso. Hunger and thirst will be thine, and the stony rock shall be thy\nbed, and with thorns shalt thou cover thyself, and of briars shalt thou\nmake thy pillow. So be lifted up in thy courage and take these things\nblithely, and laugh only when thy need is the sorest. And, O woman!\nforget not ever, nor think lightly of what I tell thee, for within thee\nin the darkness of thy womb lies he who shall be the highest hero of\nearth.\"\n\nThen took she from her mantle the fragments of the sword of Siegmund\nwhich she had gathered up when it was shattered against the spear\nof Wotan, and darkness fell on the rocky ridge where he fought with\nHunding.\n\n\"Treasure these safe,\" said she, \"for these are the shattered pieces of\nthy man's sword. Them gathered I for thy child, and he once more shall\nwield it in days to be. And I name him now. Siegfried shall he be, and\nby him shall be won the peace of victory, and the sword shall make him\nglad. So begone!\"\n\nBut Sieglinde clung to her a moment yet.\n\n\"O, sweetest and most mighty of maidens,\" she said, \"thy truth to me\nhas made me believe that what thou now sayest is to be. That which thou\nhast given me, which was his whom we both loved, I will guard very\njealously, and by him who will spring from Siegmund's loins perchance\nshall one day thy sorrow and mine be turned into joy and laughter. So\nfarewell. The woman of many woes and sorrows blesses thee every day and\nfor ever.\"\n\nThen she went swiftly away eastwards through the pines.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nTHE SENTENCE OF BRUNNHILDE\n\n\nFor a moment Brunnhilde stood there watching with a strange exaltation\nthe figure of Sieglinde as it grew ever dimmer in the dimness of the\nplumed pines, and when it was now quite vanished she turned again, and\nstood yet awhile with clenched hands and knitted brow, so that she\nmight be mistress of herself when the heavy wrath of Wotan fell on her,\nand disgrace not her own nature nor the bright company of her fearless\nsisters. Little she seemed to care what doom he might mete out to her,\nfor at the worst he could but deal her swift death, and if the sons\nof men could die bravely and blithely, meeting the face of death as\nthey would meet a friend's face, could she do less, she the first of\nthe children of Erda? For all that, she was afraid, and with her fear\nthere cut her like a two-edged sword the pang of remorse that she had\ndisobeyed him whom her soul loved. Yet in this matter she knew well\nthat were that choice again before her, she would do again as she had\ndone, and not otherwise, for pity had enlightened her, and that sweet\nmandate was binding on her.\n\nThen lifted she her eyes and saw that the height where her sisters had\nwatched was already quite hidden by the thunder clouds that had driven\nso swiftly from the north, and it was as if black night encompassed\nthe place. And from the middle of the cloud came the unceasing roar\nof thunder and the wild lanterns of the lightning flashed all ways\nat once. Then for a moment they ceased, and out of the middle of the\ncloud came the voice she loved, and it was more terrible than all the\nthunderings. Not very loud was it, but therein lay wrath as deep as\nthe sea, and unappeasable as the desert's thirst; and it called her by\nname. And when Brunnhilde heard that she stood very still.\n\nBut the other Valkyries wailed among themselves when they saw that\ntheir father Wotan had even now reached the place, and loudly they\nbewailed for their sister Brunnhilde, for by his voice they knew\nthat Wotan was exceedingly wroth. Then suddenly at the sound of\ntheir wailing, the fountains of fear were altogether loosed within\nBrunnhilde, and she felt sick with very terror, and her knees shook\ntogether. And she who had never besought aught for herself, besought\nthem now.\n\n\"Sisters, sisters of mine, help me!\" she cried, \"for the sickness of\nfear has come upon me, and my heart is pierced. Surely his rage will\ncrush me utterly, if you protect me not. Stand round me, let me hide\namong you, that he come not on me alone.\"\n\nThen were her sisters full of pity for her, for none could \"gainsay\nor resist her appeal; and in a company they ranged themselves upon a\nlittle rocky height that was there, all eight of them, and Brunnhilde\nthey set in their midst, and she cowered down among them. Thus it might\nbe that Wotan would suppose that she had not joined her sisters in fear\nof his displeasure, and that thus he might seek her elsewhere. And they\nwhispered to her to be, of good cheer, and crouch low in the midst\nof them, and not answer to his call. This she did; and they grouped\nthemselves round her on the rocky point, and thus awaited the coming\nof Wotan. Yet the bravest of them were afraid at the thought of the\nwrath that was coming, for they had seen him alight from his chariot\non the mountain-top close above them, and in the calm of his anger\nthere was that which was more terrible than the bellowing thunder or\nthe lightning stroke. Then without haste came he down and stood before\nthem. In his right hand he held the ashen spear, and his left hung by\nhis side with fingers clenched, and his glorious face, before which the\nearth trembled, was very still and set; only the point of his spear\ntrembled like an aspen leaf as he held it, and the Valkyries knew the\nwrath that shook him. Then he opened his mouth and spake very gently.\n\n\"Where is Brunnhilde?\" said he, \"for after her and her wickedness am I\ncome. Do you think to hide her from me, or that ye will veil her and\nher evil deed from the reward I mete out to it?\"\n\nThen one and another replied to him, hoping to turn away his wrath;\nand one said that nought that she could do was so terrible as the anger\nwith which he sought her; and another asked what it was that had so\nmoved his rage; and yet another spake of the heroes they had slain\nthat day, thus vainly seeking to cool his anger. But to their replies\nhe answered not; only the trembling of the head of the ashen spear\ngrew more violent, and at the last he broke out, no longer being still\nand calm in his wrath, but with an outburst of such rage as they had\nnot dreamed was there. For all that, it was not so terrible as the\nstillness of the anger in which he had come to them.\n\n\"Is it your purpose to mock me?\" he cried. \"Indeed I am not good to\nmock. O, ye Valkyries, ye wax over-bold, nor does this delay serve to\ncalm my displeasure, but it spreads further like the rising tide, and\nreaches you too. Of what avail then are your idle words? for well I\nknow that there in your midst ye foolishly seek to guard Brunnhilde.\nI bid you all then to stand off from her, for from me and from you\nand your company she is for ever an outcast. She has proved herself\nworthless. Worthless is she, and the doom of the worthless shall come\nupon her at my hands.\"\n\nThen again once more they besought him, for they trembled for\nBrunnhilde who in their midst lay trembling, and they told him how in\npanic of fear she had fled before him, beseeching her sisters to shield\nand shelter her, for they knew that they could not deceive him, nor was\nit of any use to say that she was not with them. So ere they handed her\nto him they tried to soften his anger, telling him that already fear,\nlike some ploughshare, had furrowed her heart, that heart which had\nnever yet trembled nor turned faint. Then with one voice they besought\nhim to have pity, remembering her mighty deeds. But their pleading but\nmore inflamed him, for it was the very darling of his soul who had\ndisobeyed him, and thus her sin was the more grievous, and to try to\nturn his wrath and beseech in this sort seemed to him a womanish deed.\nSo again he broke out in ever fiercer anger.\n\n\"Are ye indeed Valkyries?\" he said, \"and can it be that I have begotten\na brood so timorous of soul, and so little courageous? Women of faint\nheart are ye all! Were these the hearts that I moulded, which should\nmeet war and the clash of fighting like men, sharp as steel and hard as\ntempered steel, that like a pack of women you whimper in this sort when\nI, the righteous judge, come to visit one who has failed in truth? Ah!\nand ye know not half.\"\n\nFor a moment his anger all died out and left him only very sorry, for\nhe loved Brunnhilde with a love far deeper than any of her sisters\ncould ever know, and his voice softened.\n\n\"Ye shall hear what she has done,\" he said, \"and judge if it was\nnot meeter that my tears should flow and that I rather than you should\nweep and wail. For to her, to Brunnhilde, my innermost being and the\nsecrets of my heart were known as to myself, and into her soul, as into\na well of water, I looked and beheld myself, and my will that had been\ndark to me grew clear. In her, as in the womb of a woman with child,\nmy will matured, and from her it came to birth. Never was there love\nlike this between any man and maid. Was that a bond to lightly loose?\nYet to-day she loosed it, and she who was my will fought against me.\nA clear command I laid on her, and in the sight of heaven and earth\nshe disobeyed it, and the sword of Siegmund, made by me, was directed\nagainst myself by her command. She has done this.\"\n\n[Illustration: Crouching among her sisters.]\n\nThen he paused a little space, and again he spoke: \"No longer I speak\nto you Valkyries, I speak to her. Dost thou hear me, Brunnhilde? Thou\nwhom in every part I fashioned, to whom I gave thy deathless armour,\nto whom I gave all the sweetness and joy of life, dost thou hear me?\nAnd hearing me, art thou, thou, Brunnhilde, afraid, that thou hidest\nthyself like a coward, thou, Brunnhilde, and would shrink away from the\ndoom and punishment that I have appointed for thee? So come out, come\nout, and of thy own free-will!\"\n\nAnd when Brunnhilde, crouching among her sisters, heard the voice of\nher father speaking in such sort to her, him whom she knew best and\nloved best of all the world, all fear suddenly died in her heart, for\nthe love that each had towards the other cast fear out, and she knew\nonly that he called her, and she must go. And she stood up straight,\nand with her hands to right and left she parted the sisters who would\nhave screened her still, and with firm step and head borne proudly, as\nwas ever her wont, she came near to where Wotan stood and looked him in\nthe face and spoke to him.\n\n\"Father, I am here,\" she said. \"Make known to me what thou wiliest.\"\n\nThen answered Wotan: \"Not from me, Brunnhilde,\" he said, \"comes thy\nfate; it is thou thyself who hast sent it. Was it not by the might of\nmy will that thy soul first awoke in thee? Yet thou hast warred against\nthy own soul. It was the might of my word that made thee mighty in\nnoble deeds, yet to my word thou hast given the lie. Thou wast ever the\nmaiden of my will to me, and against my will hast thou gone. Thou wast\nthe maiden who bore my shield, but against me hast thou stretched the\nshield forth. It was thou whom I appointed to choose the lots of life\nand death. Where I ordained life thou didst think to give death, where\nI appointed death thou didst let live. It was thou whom I appointed to\nlift up the hearts of heroes, yea, and thou didst lift them up against\nme. I tell thee all that thou wert; but by what name thou shouldest\nnow be called, thou knowest thyself. No more art thou the maiden of\nmy will, but maiden only, and as Valkyrie thou hast gone on thy last\nerrand. From henceforth thou art that which thou hast made thyself;\nthou metest out thy own punishment, and it is just.\"\n\nThen did it seem to Brunnhilde that she could have borne all else but\nonly this, that she should be thus parted from her father, and her\nheart was stricken.\n\n\"Dost thou so cast me from thee?\" she said. \"Canst thou think to do\nsuch a thing?\"\n\n\"Thou sayest it,\" said he, \"and thou art outcast from me utterly.\nNever again from Walhalla shalt thou storm forth at my bidding on thy\njoyous errands, nor ever again shall I show to thee the heroes thou\nshalt fight and slay, guiding their souls at eventide to my halls,\nthere to make merry at the joyful feastings of the gods. Nor ever again\nwhen the mirth grows louder, deep into the night, shalt thou hand me\nthe wine-cup, nor again shall our souls mingle in the sweet caresses\nof father and daughter as was our wont. For out of the company of gods\nthou art taken, and thy place shall know thee no more, and thou, that\nfair flower-bud that grew so strong and sweet on the abiding stem of\nmy godhead, art nipped off and cast away. For the bond between us is\nbroken, and for ever art thou banished from before my face, and out of\nthe light of mine eyes.\"\n\nThen began the sisters all to weep and to wail, for like Wotan they\nloved her, and with words of pity they called on her by name, and\nbitterly they lamented themselves. But among them all Brunnhilde stood\ndry-eyed and firm. Nought said she to vainly try to turn his mind, she\nwished but to learn her uttermost doom.\n\n\"Then is all, all that thou hast given me, utterly lost to me?\" she\nsaid. \"Of all thy gifts dost thou strip me? Is all lost to me?\"\n\n\"Yea, and it is lost to me,\" said Wotan, \"for from the life and light\nof the gods thou passest. Here shalt thou abide, even here, and deep\nsleep shall wrap thee round, and thou shalt be alone and without\nprotector, until the day come that some man, a wayfarer, passing here\nshall see a maid lying alone, and shall come to her and wake her, and\nshe shall be his. Maiden only thou art, not maiden of my will, and to\nmaid, as is fit, comes man.\"\n\nBut even now when the horror of her full doom was told to Brunnhilde,\nstill she swooned not nor bewailed herself. But among the sisters again\nrose wild tumult and bewilderment of pity, for of all dooms to fall\ninto the hands of a man was to them the most shameful, and the stain\nand disgrace that was decreed to her touched their sisterhood. And with\none consent they entreated their father to have pity, and not put that\nuttermost degradation on her, but refrain from cursing her with so\ngreat an infamy. Yet he paid no heed to their wailings, for it was even\nas he said, and Brunnhilde was the maiden of his will no more, but a\nmaiden only, and a man will find the maiden at the last.\n\nThen because they still importuned him till he was vexed with them,\nhe turned fiercely on them. \"Her fate is fixed,\" he cried, \"and ye\nhave heard it. From you as from me is she for ever separate because\nshe was faithless; and as I have said, so shall it be. No more shall\nher steed whinny to its fellows as ye fly together on the wings of the\nwinds. And here shall she abide till the man who fares by shall pluck\nthe full bloom of her sleeping maidenhood, and from maid shall make of\nher mother. To man her master shall her heart be bent, and meekly shall\nshe do all his will. The cares of the house shall be hers, and by the\nhearth-side shall she sit and ply the distaff, as befits a wife, and\nthe mockers among men, it may be, shall make merry at her. Woman shall\nshe be among the sons of men, and her fate none other than theirs.\"\n\nThen was the spirit of Brunnhilde broken within her, for the\npunishment was harder than she could bear; yet still she said no word.\nBut her sisters again broke out into lamentations, whereat Wotan was\nangry, for what must be, must be, and their bewailings were but a waste\nof breath and cowardly withal. Nor was it his will to palaver longer\nwith them.\n\n\"Begone, begone!\" he cried, \"for but a little more and ye share her\ndoom. So begone, lest her fate be yours also. For the last time ye look\non her face. And should one of you remain here lingering, in vain hope\nof resisting my will or changing my unchangeable mind, Brunnhilde's\ndoom is hers too. So be wise while there is time. Get ye gone from this\nrock, her sleeping-place, and let none again be found here. To horse\nwith you all, for swiftly shall woe light on the loiterer.\"\n\nThen the sisters, seeing that the doom was spoken, and though\nWalhalla should fall, yet should Wotan's word abide, went very\nsorrowfully to their horses, and loosed them from their tetherings, and\neach mounted and rode off. Shrill through the woods and the echoing\nmountain-side sounded the storm of their going, for the winds awoke to\nspeed them, and over dale and down glen they sped swiftly, till the\nnoise of their travel grew faint, and on the mountain-side there abode\nonly Wotan and Brunnhilde, who still lay crouched at his feet.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nTHE SLEEP OF BRUNNHILDE\n\n\nThus the wild storm of the ride of the Valkyries passed away. Like\nsmoke they were borne away on the wings of the tempest, and a windless\ncalm fell round about the place where Wotan and Brunnhilde abode on the\nmountain-top. The sun was already set, though still to westwards there\nlingered the reflected fires of its setting, and star by star came out\nin the deepening vault of blue overhead, until all heaven was spangled\nwith their burning and grew bright at eventide. Eastward rose the moon\nat its fullest, to climb its silent and appointed journey over the\nfirmament, and shone with a light exceeding bright and clear as running\nwater. In the brake the chorus of birds was hushed, and over hill and\nvalley spread and deepened the spring night. Such a night indeed it was\nas that on which, but one sunset ago, had Siegmund come to the house of\nHunding-through the storms which day-long had lashed the hillsides; and\nnow, even as then, the storm was hushed, and deep peace lay over the\nearth. Yet swiftly the finger of fate had written, and swift had been\nthe accomplishment of that decree, for lover lay dead and husband also,\nwhile through the gloomy forest hurried Sieglinde eastwards, to shield\nthat which lay within her from the wrath of Wotan. And she, Brunnhilde,\nthat had befriended the lover and his beloved, lay very still at the\nfeet of her father making a darkness for her eyes, for on her head had\nthe wrath come, and stern and terrible was her punishment. For lightly\nhad she recked of his godhead and his holy behest, and by the maiden of\nhis will had his will been betrayed; thus she was will-maiden to him\nno longer, and should wayfarer hap on her, not maid but woman, for so\nhad the word gone forth from Wotan's mouth. Long time then sat the god\nthere motionless with the crouched figure of her he loved at his feet,\nbut at the last she raised her head, and essayed to meet the eyes that\nmet not hers, and slowly she spoke.\n\n\"Is in truth my fault so vile and shameful,\" said she, \"that with so\nshameful a visitation thou must needs reward it? Time was when high on\nthe sunlit cliff of godhead I stood with thee, and have I now by my sin\ncast myself down so utterly to the slime and horror of the nethermost\npit, that viler phantoms than Hella ever knew must flap their wings of\ndarkness round me? Surely it is not possible that in one moment I so\nput off all the worth that ever was mine, all which I had from thee,\nthat a fate so unworthy fits me.\"\n\nYet still the god looked not at her, and Brunnhilde nigh despaired.\nYet alone with him, for the twain were indeed not two but one, she\ncould beseech and entreat him, though before her sisters she thought\nshame to do so, and slowly the words were wrung from her, like dropping\nblood from some deep-welling wound.\n\n\"Father, father!\" she cried, \"look once again in mine eyes, and let\nthe light of thine dwell once more on my face, and search it well and\nremember what has been, and let not the loving-kindness of old days\nbe forgotten. So, maybe, shall thy wrath not burn so fiercely against\nme, and thy anger be assuaged. Cast the strong and clear light of thy\nknowledge on the sin I have committed, and look well at it to see if\nindeed it merits this doom, so that thy child must be for ever forsaken\nby thee, and her love no more brought to remembrance.\"\n\nThen looked he at her, but no ray shot across the sombre gloom of his\nface.\n\n\"Look at thy sin thyself,\" said he, \"and let thy mind be to thee a\nlantern that illumines it. Mark it carefully, and know fully indeed\nwhat thou hast done. What need for me to tell thee. Thou knowest.\"\n\nThen did Brunnhilde ponder on all they had said together the night\nbefore concerning the Wolsungs, and how Wotan's mind ere yet he had\ntalked with Fricka had been to save Siegmund and destroy Hunding, for\nhe was husband to Sieglinde only by name and vow, while Siegmund was\nthe man she loved, and how he had commanded herself to fight well for\nSiegmund.\n\n\"Time was,\" she said, \"when thou wert on Siegmund's side, and by thy\nside was I, as ever. It was the word that thou saidst to me then which\nwas in my heart when I fought for him.\"\n\nBut the cloud moved not from Wotan's face, but sat throned there\nheavily.\n\n\"Hotfoot from speech with me thou wentest to the battle,\" said he.\n\"Was the word of mine that then rang in thy ears to do as thou didst\ndo?\"\n\n\"Yet when first the lot was cast,\" said the maid, \"the lot of death\ndeclared for Bunding.\"\n\n\"It was so,\" said he. \"But the bidding I gave thee then I revoked,\nand thou knowest it. Yea, and thou didst know it even when the sin of\ndisobedience was red upon thee.\"\n\n\"But who changed the mind that erst was in thee?\" said she. \"Of\nthyself thou didst not change it, but Fricka inclined thee to her will,\nbreaking asunder the resolve that thou hadst made. Her whim it was\nthat swayed thy mind; nor was I the first foe to thy will, but thou\nthyself, when the unalterable word that thou hadst spoken was changed\nand twisted and made of nought because so the whim of Fricka would have\nit.\"\n\nThen was Wotan even more sore at heart, for he had thought that\nBrunnhilde had known his will to the full, but with open eyes had\ndisobeyed it. Yet this was worse, in that she thought him infirm of\npurpose and easily swayed, and here lay treason to him.\n\nBut she, though no word came from him, yet fathomed his thought, and to\nthat unspoken thought made reply.\n\n\"Father, I am not wise as thou art,\" she said, \"but this I knew,\nthat thou didst love the Wolsung who sprang from thy loins, and I\nthought that thy strife of words with Fricka had blinded thy mind\nand bewildered thy sense, so that in that moment thou wast unmindful\nof him. And it was a bitter thing to my heart to see Siegmund stand\nunprotected and outside the range of thy protecting arm, for thou didst\never love him, and in nought had he disobeyed thy word; though to\nFricka's mind he had done amiss.\"\n\nBut Wotan's face still gloomed above her.\n\n\"Ah, thou didst know, thou didst know what way my choice had gone, and\nthat which determined me concerned thee not,\" he said; \"and knowing\nthat, thou wert at Siegmund's side with the guard and shelter of thy\nshield, thou didst range thyself against me and against the word that\nhad gone forth from my lips.\"\n\nThen Brunnhilde knew there was only one thing left as yet unspoken by\nher by which might the doom that he had decreed upon her be averted.\nSo that last arrow left in her sheaf she drew. For ever Wotan had been\na friend to love, whether among the gods or among the race of men whom\nhis might sustained and his pity upheld. So now, since for the first\ntime the comprehension of love had reached her, when that morning\nshe saw Siegmund recked nought of what might be done to him, but\nconsidered--only that he might not be bereft of his wife Sieglinde, and\nthus thought scorn of Walhalla's blisses, if so be she was not there to\nshare them with him, so Brunnhilde thought that even now at the last\nWotan might perchance pity her for that which he knew so well, for the\nsake of the love to which he was ever friend.\n\n\"It is true, it is true,\" she said, \"but there is yet one thing thou\ndost not know. For when at thy bidding I first drew near to Siegmund\nbearing swift death for him, and having no thought in my mind of pity\nfor him or of disobedience to thy word, my soul was melted when I saw\nhow it was with him, and heard him speak. Then knew I that he was a\nhero, for no fear at all was his, neither of swift bright-eyed death,\nnor even of Hella itself, and knew I also that one overmastering need\nbeset his soul, and that was his love for Sieglinde. And my heart made\nobeisance to his love, and reverenced it, and hence was pity born.\nBehold, his tongue was a trumpet, and the grief that was his he blared\nforth, and none heard him but I. The splendid sorrow of love that\nreached as high as the heavens had in his heart its everlasting seat,\nand that love throned; there thought scorn of all else, and to the\nterrors with which I threatened him his ear was utterly deaf. These\nthings, father, I heard and saw, and as I hearkened and beheld, the\nmight of that defenceless man shook the fortress walls that until then\nhad ever girded my heart, and they tottered and fell, and lo! I was\nopen to the invader. Thy godhead and thy nature that is mine, died, and\nas a maiden of mortal birth and human sufferings I stood before him,\nlost in one thought, how could I help him.\"\n\nAgain she made pause and drew closer to Wotan's knee.\n\n\"Father, who had given me the love that then burned in my breast?\" she\nwhispered. \"Was it not thy will, thy will which had bade me guard the\nWolsung? Indeed, so it seemed to me, it was thy will, and, even though\nit agreed not with the word that thou didst give me, was it not thy\nwill that even then directed me against thy word?\"\n\nBut though all the anger had burned out of the face of Wotan, yet was\nit still stern and set like a mask of marble. And when Brunnhilde had\ndone:\n\n\"Hast thou aught more to say, my daughter?\" he asked, and her silence\nanswered him.\n\nThen said he--\n\n\"Listen once again then, before we make an end. Love seems to thee\nthen a light thing that thou canst turn to it so, for thou dost not\nknow aught of its flames and its sorrows as I know them. Nor dost\nthou know, thou whom I thought ever to be the maiden of my will, how\nI myself sided against myself, and of the secret pangs and agonies\nthat were mine. Ah, Brunnhilde, I have suffered, I have suffered;\nfaint I have often been and wounded, and wants that I cannot quench,\nand wishes that I cannot bridle have brought me to this, that my will\nwavers. Here is the wreck of my world, here is to me a grief that will\nnot sleep. And thou for a worldly love--and herein is thy crime--hast\nchoked the well of my love for thee. For in that love I rested and was\ncontent, for delight and laughter have been thy food, and deep thou\nhast ever drunk of our love which was untainted with the human passion\nand hunger which now thou callest love. In that and in thee found I\nmy solace and rest, when the strife of the gods made me bitter and of\nuneasy heart. For dark settles around us, and black wings of fate but\ndimly seen hover near. And thou, in this hour, by thine own choice,\nthou hast deserted and forsaken me. Thou hast chosen thine own way when\nmy will was otherwise. Thus it is of thy own choice that our parting\ndraws nigh, and no more may thy nature mix with mine, nor ever again\nshall we hold sweet converse together touching things high and great,\ndealing wisely with them in loving whispers. Thou thyself hast chosen;\ntherefore must I henceforth work without thy help and communion, and\nwhile life and light endure, no more shall our hearts leap towards one\nanother in joyous greeting.\"\n\nMeantime while they talked together had the full moon of spring risen\nhigh into the night, and Brunnhilde with heart that wandered for a\nmoment from its woes bethought herself, as she looked on the earth\nshe so loved, that never again would she see it with eyes of sight\ndivine. And like an echo from far off it came upon her that even now\nhigh in Walhalla were the tables for feasting set, yet all were waiting\ntill Wotan should come. Soon he would come, but sorrowful and alone,\nand all would see that her place was empty for aye, and that another\nfilled the wine-cup and handed to the heroes the joy of the grape. All\nthis she was to leave, and her untamed heart once more bid her make a\nlast effort, to see if not even now could she not turn Wotan from his\npurpose. For at the first the doom had so stunned her that she could\nnot believe it was for her, but now under the calm and sweet night that\nunreality of horror began to take shape, and it was then no phantom. So\nonce more she turned to him.\n\n\"Worthless hast thou found me and foolish,\" she said, \"and altogether\nunprofitable. For the word which thou didst give me I scarce could\nbelieve was thine. Yet what of the years that went before, when all thy\nteaching to me was to love what thou lovest?\"\n\nBut Wotan answered not, nor was his face moved, and again, in agony of\nthe loneliness that was coming on her, she embraced his knees and cried\nto him--\n\n\"Is it so, then? Are we parted utterly, and shall our joyous\nmeetings be seen no more? For lo! thou dividest that which is one and\nundivisible, and tearest away with a stroke a part of thine own self,\nyea, thine own heart thou easiest aside. Ah, father, great father,\nforget not that this, this maid of thine, was part of thyself, her life\nthine, her all, thine. But now thou cuttest it off, thou thrustest\nme from thee, and if that must be, is it not enough? But wilt thou\ndesecrate this part of thee further, and shame it as thou hast said?\nThat shame thou thyself wilt share. The fault was mine, but if thou\ndoest as thou hast said, making me the toy of men and food for their\nsport and laughter, what a fall is there. And my fall is thine also.\"\n\nThen answered he: \"Thou hast chosen love to be thy master, and love\nthou hast lightly followed like some feathered line. It is fit then\nthat thou follow the man who brings love to thee.\"\n\nThen at the thought that she might fall a victim to some coward and\ncraven fellow, some bloodless braggart, again she besought him that at\nthe least he would promise her that the man who should win her might be\nworthy of her, a man of deeds and of bravery, even as her own bravery\nhe knew was matchless, and her own deeds many. For great was her fall\neven so, since for the blisses of Walhalla, and the endless joys of\nsharing in her father's work and wisdom, she walked the earth, the wife\nof a man. But if such man was a coward and the scorn of men, the doom\nwas not to be borne.\n\nBut Wotan's face was marble still, and he said only that she had turned\nfrom him, nor could he make choice for her any more.\n\nThen since he might not choose for her, Brunnhilde made choice, if so\nbe that her choice found favour in his eyes, and she said--\n\n\"There lives on earth, father, the race which thou thyself didst\nbeget, and of that blood, since it is thine, can never a coward be\nborn. And not far off is the day, when from that race shall be born the\nnoblest hero that the world shall ever know. Him name I, of the Wolsung\nblood.\"\n\nThen again there was anger in Wotan's eyes as he answered--\n\n\"Speak to me not of Wolsungs,\" said he, \"for from them as from thee,\nand in the self-same hour, I have parted and withdrawn myself, and my\nlove no longer goes before them, but hard after them follows and shall\nfollow my hate. Already by it have they been hunted even to the death.\"\n\nThen did Brunnhilde, that nothing should be concealed between them,\ntell him that by her hand was Sieglinde safe, the mighty mother of a\nman that should be, in whose veins ran the pure Wolsung blood, for\nWolsung would be alike his father and his mother. And though Sieglinde\nfled in fear, yet in the appointed months would she bring forth him\nwhom to save she fled. Moreover Sieglinde bore with her, for she\nherself had given it, the sword which heir father Wotan had granted\nSiegmund to find.\n\nBut when that sword was named, Wotan frowned and was afresh displeased,\nfor in this had he sided against himself, and bitterness lurked in the\nthought.\n\n\"Broken is the blade thereof,\" he cried, \"for against my spear which\nnone may withstand was it shattered, and who shall make good such a\nshivering? So speak not to me of swords. But now thy time has come,\nand though I have heard thee very patiently, for the love I bore thee,\nyet thou seest that it is but vain to seek to sway my mind from its\ncourse. So abide the lot which has fallen to thee, nor indeed have I\nthe power to change it, for thou thyself didst prefer the love of man\nto the love of Wotan, and what thou hast done abides. Thy time has\ncome, and I must linger here with thee no longer, for already I have\nlingered too long. Here for the first time and the last must I turn\nfrom thee, even as from me thou hast turned. Nor may I learn what thou\nwishest, or knowing, may not perform. Thy woe must I see fulfilled and\naccomplished.\"\n\n\"Then name it once again,\" said she, \"that I may hear my sentence.\"\n\nAnd Wotan answered very solemnly--\n\n\"Here seal I thine eyes and thy limbs in deep sleep,\" said he, \"and\nsleep thou shalt, till some one of the sons of men passes by and wakes\nthee. His wife shalt thou be, by right of finding.\"\n\nThen Brunnhilde the Valkyrie spake for the last time, and she fell on\nher knees before the god.\n\n\"I rebel not, nor murmur,\" said she, \"and let the word thou hast\nspoken be done unto me. I seek not to alter aught, but in thy love\ngrant me yet this. Grant me this, ere the bands of sleep press down\nmy eyelids and swathe my limbs, that thou wilt establish round my\nresting-place some terror and hindrance that will affright the coward\nand the falterer, so that none such comes near me. Let him who wins\nme be at least some hero of might, man, yet not coward, for how could\nBrunnhilde mate with such? Let it be such a coming I wait, and here\nunmurmuring will I fall asleep on this height until he who comes awakes\nme. Ah, father, father, grant me this boon, and forbid it not, else\nwith thy deathless spear strike at me now, even as I cling to thy\nknee. Blot me out and trample on me, and let the winds scatter me over\nthe mountain-side, or the beasts devour me. Better were that than to\nwither in the arms of a coward so leave me not unfenced against the\napproach of the worm and the spider among men. So shall thy word be\nfulfilled, and so shall I be saved from the nameless horror. O bid\nfire to be kindled and ring me round, and let the red tower of flame\nmake battlement and ward for me on this rock. Set here fierce tongues\nto affright the boaster, and let the hot breath of the flame drive off\nthe empty braggart, who fears to face the roaring of its rage. Grant me\nthis. It is finished.\"\n\nThen for a long space did Wotan gaze into her beseeching eyes,\nand thought within himself of all the beautiful days they had spent\ntogether, which now were over and numbered with the unreturning dead,\nand long he thought of the love they had ever had the one to the\nother until the day of her disobedience, and a mildness came over his\nalmighty eyes, and he was fain to grant this boon to her, for in no way\nthus would his word be broken. Then tenderly he raised her from where\nshe knelt, and once more his arm was round her neck, and her breath\nsoft and sweet swelled and made full the bosom that beat close to his.\nSo gazed she for the last time into his eyes, and when for the last\ntime she heard his voice, it was tender and full of love, and all anger\nhad gone from it as utterly as the spent storms had gone from the sky,\nand she knew that her boon was granted to her.\n\n[Illustration: Then tenderly he rised her from where she knelt.]\n\n\"Farewell,\" he said, \"O noblest maiden, steadfast of heart Thou holy\nsolace in which my soul ever delighted, farewell, farewell! Must I\nbe ever far from thee and parted from, thee, and shall I never more\nwelcome thy coming which has aye been honey to me? Never any more must\nour horses range together as we ride, nor will it be thy hand but\nanothers that gives the wine-cup to me. Many days of love have we spent\ntogether, and now leave thee, thou delight and laughter of my eyes. Yet\nnever has bride had for her bridal so glorious a beacon as shall burn\nfor thine, for presently at my word will the flame ring here thy rock,\nand spread its flambent and deadly embrace to affright the coward, and\nthus none but the courageous of heart shall dare to vault the fence\nthat shall guard thee. To one only shall it be granted to do this\nthing, and he is the man who is free with a freedom that I, Wotan, know\nnot.\"\n\nBut when Brunnhilde heard his word she lifted her face to him, and\nWotan kissed her, and her eyes sought his in the last look of all. And\nbrokenly came Wotan's speech, for he loved her; and he kissed her on\nher sweet mouth and on her eyes.\n\n\"Often thus have we done, Brunnhilde,\" said he, \"and often have thine\neyes been closed under my kisses, and bright they have been when I\nkissed them, for the light of coming battle that shone there. Often\ntoo has the song of thy mouth, ere yet thou wert of age to go forth to\nfight, been wine to the souls of my hero-warriors. O eyes of thine,\nstars to me from a starry heaven, beacons to which my heart was often\nlifted strong with hope, when I worked upwards from gross bewilderment\nof darkness to this joyful and beauteous world! Sweet physicians of my\nsoul, for the last time heal me as my lips linger on you still. Happier\nthan I is he who next meets them, for on me no more is shed their\nguiding light. Thus, even thus, I pass from thy side, and in my last\nkiss thy godhead steals back from thee to him who gave it birth.\"\n\nAnd even as he spoke, and as on her eyes and mouth the god's lips were\npressed, her eyes closed softly, and her mouth was shut, and softly she\nsank, untroubled, and like a child tired with play, into his encircling\narm. And softly did Wotan take her up in his strong grasp, and softly\nand very tenderly he laid her on a low mossy bank that had spread its\nvelvet beneath the shade of a whispering pine. Then looked he the last\ntime on her peaceful and sleeping face, and raising her head he put\nthere her helmet, and shut down the vizor, so that none could see her\nface. Then he looked once more, now that her face was gone from him, at\nthe gentle swell of the bosom of maidenhood, and at all the beauty and\nstrength of her tireless limbs; and then took her steel shield and laid\nit on her body, and her spear he laid lightly on her outstretched arm.\nThus all his work with her was accomplished, and there remained only\nthat he should fulfil the boon which he had granted her; and with firm\nstep he went a little space away and called with loud voice on Loge,\nthe flickering god of fire.\n\n\"Loge, hear!\" he cried, \"and arise and come hither obedient to my hand.\nCome thou in waves of fire, and encompass the rock where I stand with\nthy burning. Loge, Loge, up!\"\n\nAt that three times he smote the rock, and where he smote up started\nthe spouting flames; and with his spear he pointed to the ring where\nhe would have the fire spring, and where he pointed there was poured\nout the blaze. And when all was finished, and on all sides round\nBrunnhilde, where she slept, ran the ring of fire, once more he raised\nthe deathless spear aloft.\n\n\"To him alone!\" he cried, \"who, fears not to face my spear, is it given\nto break through the blaze and enter.\"\n\nThen passed he unscathed through the fire, and left Brunnhilde\nsleeping on the rock, till he should come whom the fire affrighted\nnot. But ever higher burned that unbridled blaze, and men awaking at\ndead hours that night thought that this was dawn, and dawn it was, but\na dawn they dreamed not of yet. For as yet the life that lay within\nSieglinde, as she hurried eastward from the wrath of Wotan, was not\ncome to birth, and to none else but to the child that should be born\nwas it given to face the spear of Wotan, and thus by Wotan's word there\nwas none among all the sons of men who could face the fire that blazed\nwhere Brunnhilde lay. And on the ridge facing the dawn lay Hunding and\nSiegmund through the spring night stiff and cold to the stars, while\nthe maid who had saved the Wolsung's wife and the pledge of love he had\ngiven lay beneath the stars also, but sleeping.\n\nThus were the loves of Siegmund and Sieglinde ended, and that which\nshould be their fruit was not yet come to birth.\n\n\nTHE END","title":"The Valkyries","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":31874}