"To-night we are host and guest."
"To-night we are host and guest."
At these words Sieglinde could contain herself no more, but came quickly up, and placed herself between the two men.
"No, no!" she cried. "It cannot be, Hunding."
Then his wrath flamed up. "Hence, go hence," he cried; "get to thy work, and make ready my night-drink; go from the hall."
At his words she fell back, still pondering with her quick woman's wit as to how she could avert this. From the table she took the drinking-horn, and from the cupboard the spices with which she made the hot, fragrant draught which Hunding loved. And even as she turned to leave the hall, sudden and high like a summer fire in the forest her love for the stranger flamed in her heart, and with love a sudden wild up-springing of hope. He still stood by the hearth, scarcely heeding Hunding's words, for his eyes ever followed her, and as she was even now on the threshold, she cast one long glance at him, and then, as if leading his eye thither, looked to where the hilt of the sword in the ash-trunk glimmered in the firelight. Then she looked back to him, and knew that he understood not, for how should he understand?
But Hunding saw that she still lingered, and with furious finger pointed her forth, and she left them. Then he took his arms from the tree.
"Words for women, and weapons for men," said he. "Wolfs whelp, we meet to-morrow."
And he strode from the hall into his bed-chamber, leaving the stranger alone.
So Hunding went forth and left the stranger alone with the leaping flames and shadows from the hearth. Long pondered he on what the day had brought forth, and what should be the burden of the morrow; but through all his thoughts there rose like a flame of dancing fire the thought of the woman Sieglinde, and of his love for her, and how he could help her to leave this house of hate. Weaponless was he, and her husband had mocked at him for it. Then his thoughts went backwards to the old wild days in the forest when he and his father, whom he had called by the name he was known to men, were the swift terror of their foes. And at that a sudden hope sprang up within him, for he remembered how his father had told him that when his need was sorest, a sword should be near him. Surely now his need was sore enough, yet where was the sword? At that he cried aloud on his father's name, the secret name known but to him, and "Walse, father Walse!" he cried, "show me the sword, for my need is sore."
No voice answered him, but the stillness was broken by the sound of the logs on the hearth suddenly falling together, and from the embers went up a sudden flame illuminating the walls, and gleaming on the sword-hilt Then remembered he that Sieglinde's last look had directed his eyes there, but from where he sat he could see the gleam only, and knew not yet that it was a sword. Only he thought to himself that her last look had fallen there, and something of the gleam of her eyes still lingered there, making the dark stem bright But the gleam was very steady, and he wondered at it.
Then the flames from the hearth grew low again, and the shadows thickened in the hall. But something of the brightness still lingered within him, and he thought of how the eyes of the woman had shone on him all the evening when they sat at meat, and it seemed to him as if his soul, on which long night had settled, had been bathed in the beams of morning. Light and hope she had brought to his darkened heart; for one day he had basked in sun-shine, and ere yet his sun had sunk behind the hills again, one last evening ray had so illumined the ash-stem, that something of the light had still lingered there. Still lingered it also in his heart, though she had gone, and though the shadows of his woes crowded fast upon him, even as upon the walls of the dwelling-place they gathered in growing battalions, as the flames on the hearth sank ever lower. Yet still he sat there with open unseeing eyes. No thought of sleep was his. How could he sleep when Sieglinde abode within the house of hate? Round him the shadows grew and thickened, and at length the last sparks on the hearth were quenched, and through the open chimney only there filtered in a little greyness, so that though all was dark, yet the density of that blackness was greater here and less there.
How long he sat there, alert though lost in reverie, he knew not, but at the end a little noise fell on his ear and the door of the bed-chamber was opened, and framed in darkness he saw there a white figure. And his heart so hammered within him, that it seemed to him that the noise of it must awaken Hunding. Yet he moved not, neither spoke, and the figure came nearer. Then a voice that he knew fell like pearly rain on the stillness.
"Sleepest thou?" she whispered.
Then he could stay still no longer, but sprang up noiselessly.
"I?" he stammered, "I sleep, when thou seekest me?"
"Listen," said she. "In Hunding's night-draught I have mixed a sleeping potion, and thus the whole night is before us to devise a plan for thy safety."
"Safety?" whispered he. "With thee is my safety, and my——" And then, because he was Hunding's guest, he paused. Yet he was Hunding's foe at daybreak.
"But a sword, a sword!" she cried.
"Ah! there is no need to speak low; we shall not waken Hunding, for I brewed his drink strong. Ah! could I but bring thee the sword, for a sword waits here for him who is fit to seize it. It is near to thee now, and truly thine is an hour of sore need."
"What sayest thou? What is it thou hast said?" cried the stranger.
So she told him the story of her marriage feast, of how another stranger had strode to the board, and flung the sword in the ash-stem.
"There, there," she said, pointing at it, looking where she had looked before; "and one, only one shall be able to move it. Ah! when he comes—he who is ordained—then shall my vengeance for the years of sorrow I have passed in the house of Hunding be sweet to my mouth. For every tear I have shed here, my mouth shall be full of laughter and joy; for all the tears that I could not shed out of very bitterness and drought of soul, joy shall be mine too deep for smile or laughter. My friend, the friend of my soul, him I wait for, and with him there will be peace and victory for us both."
Then the stranger, knowing that there could be but one, and that his father whom he had called "The Wolf," who could cast a sword as the woman had said, and remembering that he had told him that in the hour of his sorest need a sword should be near him, knew that this was the sword of which he spoke, and that it was he who should draw it forth. And knowing that, he gave no more thought to it, for the woman had said that he who should draw it forth was the friend of her heart, and that knowledge for the moment drowned all else, and covered his soul with a huge, soft billow of joy, so he gave no heed to the sword, but only to her who stood by him. And in the exultation of his love he laughed aloud, and passionately drew her to him.
"And that is I, that is I!" he cried, "O crown and flower of womanhood! All my hopes in thee are fulfilled, and all my failures in thee are mended. Hard and long has been the way that led us each to the other. Lo! I heal the wounds which wrong has made, and thy hand soothes and banishes all my woe. Shame has been thy portion in the house of hate. Hunding thy husband! No mumbling vow hallows that unnatural union. Thou hast called for vengeance, and vengeance is at thy side, and the arm of vengeance thus wound round thee makes thee strong. But dearer and nearer I approach to thee than that. My hand bears vengeance for thee, but my heart bears love. Sieglinde! Sieglinde!"
Even as they stood thus, in the first transport of the knowledge that they loved, the great door of the hall swung open noiselessly, for maybe Hunding had not closed it when he returned home, and Sieglinde started in sudden alarm.
"What is that?" she cried. "Who went? Who has come?"
Slowly the door swung wide, and a great flood of moonlight poured in upon the pair, bathing them in its beams. High rose the moon in a cloudless heaven, and the warm breeze of spring whispered through the bushes and filled the hall. At length and at last the winter had ceased, and spring, that moment of all the year when the sap stirs in the trees, and the birds are mated, and lion seeks lioness in the Libyan hills, and man turns to woman and woman to man, spring was upon them in its overpowering fulness and sweetness. None may resist its compulsion, nor did they resist. Gently he drew her to him, and whether he spoke or sang she knew not, or whether it was only the echo of her thoughts she heard. But it seemed to her that his voice spoke.
"None went, but one has come," said he. "Look you, this house is the house of hate no longer, but the place of spring. For May has awoke, and the storms are hushed, and winter is over, and the glory of spring spreads round us. He wakes the warm winds, and as he wakes them they waft him on, and at his coming the wayside blossoms with its yearly miracle. Hedge and heath, field and forest are redolent with flowers, and as he moves across the world, laughter hails him on all sides. O! the time of the singing birds is come, and the breath of the earth is warm and sweet. Spring lies among the bushes, and where his warm body is pressed the flowers spring, and the young shoots of the trees, when they see his bosom rise and fall to the beat of his heart, put out their amorous branches to touch his fair form. Along the world strike his smiles, and with them, his sole weapons, he makes the whole world mad. The flash of his eye slays the winter, and at his glance the storms are hushed. All doors fly open to meet his coming, even as the door of the house of hate opened just now of its own accord, and spring is here.
"And who walks with him? Love his sister. In our hearts she slept, and when he came the doors of our hearts were opened also, and she laughs when she sees the light. The walls that held us are crumbled, and she is free. Spring the brother meets love the sister, and they meet here on the threshold of our hearts. They have found each other, and we have found each other."
And whether she replied to him he knew not, or whether it was only the echo of his thoughts he heard, but it seemed to him that her voice spake.
"Spring," she said. "O spring, my brother, how have I sorrowed for thee and sought thee. Long has winter held us both, but when first I saw thee, how with love and I knew not what dread my heart was drawn to thee. Friendless was I, and he who was nearest to me was nearest also in hate. At length, at length thou earnest, and at the first glance, I knew that thou wast mine, and all the secret treasure of my heart, all that I am, was poured out for thee. Friendless was I, and frost-bound of heart and utterly lonely. Then, O my friend, thou earnest!"
And wonder and awe at the greatness and might of the gift that the spring had brought to both fell on them, and for a long while they stood thus content, if so be that lovers are ever content, in gazing at each other. Then the full love surged strong within them, so that speech could not be withheld, and Sieglinde wound her arms round his neck yet more closely.
"Let me gaze on thee," she whispered, "for my senses reel with longing for thee, and reel in that they are satisfied when they behold thee. I am on fire."
"Yea, the moon makes thee on fire," said he, "and like living fire thy hair burns round thee. I gaze and I gaze, and still I am unfilled."
Then Sieglinde with her hand swept back the hair from his forehead, and with her finger, smiling like a child, she traced the path of the blood in his temple.
"See how thy life spreads like the boughs of a tree, and puts forth shoots in thy temples," said she. "I am faint and sick with content, yet even now sounds warning in my ears. Though never before have I seen thy face, yet long before have I known it."
"I, too," said he, "when dreams of love visited my sleep, have dreamed of thee and of no other. With what sadness did I behold thee then. And now, and now——"
"And often," said she, "as I gazed in the black lake, where it is still and waveless, have I seen thy face as in some magic mirror that showed me what should be. And now, and now——"
And like a child she laughed for pleasure, and as the wonder of their love grew and deepened, so the silence of love, more musical than hearing itself, descended on them. That long draught of silence was wine to each thirsty soul, and when they had drunk deep of it, again Sieglinde spake.
"Speak to me, and let me be silent listening," she said, "for thy voice comes to me out of the early years when I was but a child. Thy laugh rings to me out of those golden mists before—before——" and she shuddered at the thought of Hunding.
"Speak thou," said he, "and let me listen."
Again the tide of love filled her full, even as the bitter creeks and marshes are flushed with the return of the water. Then struck her a sudden wild thought, and again she gazed earnestly into his eyes.
"Without words when thou came faint with weariness, thy glance looked so to me, till my despair was mild, and died in the light of the day that streamed on me. Wehwalt! ah no, such cannot be thy name. What is there of woe left? Not the shadow of the dream even!"
"No, I am Wehwalt no longer!" cried he, "for thy love has banished woe from me. That name which I gave myself is gone, for gone is woe. Ah, woman, woman, give me my name; tell me by what name I shall be called, and that, thy gift, and none other shall be my name."
Then looked she at him as one half lost in thought.
"And Wolf, was Wolf thy father's true name?" she asked.
"Wolf he was called," said the stranger, "and as Wolf he was feared, for he was as a wolf among timorous foxes. Yet it was not as Wolf I knew him. His glance was bright as thine, and as far-reaching, and that glance was the glance of Walse." Then was that mystery of fate by which she was led to him, even as Spring the brother met Love the sister on the threshold of their hearts, made manifest to her, and the knowledge drove her beside herself.
"So," she said, "Walse was thy father, and thou art a Wolsung. For thy sake did Walse fling the sword into the ash-stem, for well know I that it was Walse who flung it there and no other. And on my tongue thy true name trembles, the name by which I love thee—Siegmund, Siegmund."
Then sprang Siegmund, stranger no longer, to the ash-stem, and in his right hand seized he the gleaming hilt.
"Thou sayest it!" he cried, "and the sword shall prove I am Siegmund. For Walse told me that when my need was sorest then should the sword of deliverance and victory be near me. Has it not come? Has not my need been sore? For love is the sorest need a man can know, and that is mine; and deep is the dear wound it has made in my breast. Burn deeper yet, O wound, stirring me to strife and strenuous deed. Lo! I name it, the sword of need—Nothung, Nothung. Come forth then, Nothung, leave thy dark sheath, and bare thy shining blade. I, Siegmund, bid thee."
At that he wrenched at the sword-hilt.
At that he wrenched at the sword-hilt.
And at that he wrenched at the sword-hilt, and that which no power of the guests of Hunding's marriage feast could stir, moved at his bidding, and leaped forth to his hand. Bright and lordly shone it in tile moon of spring, and Sieglinde beheld, and her eyes were dazzled with its shining, even as her heart was dazzled with love.
Then cried Siegmund again: "Behold me, Siegmund the Wolsung, the son of Walse. This is my bridal gift to thee, the sword of victory and of thy deliverance. Wife to me art thou by right, even as the sword is mine by right Round thee crumbles the house of hate. Come forth, come forth into the light of love. Lo, the house of hate and of spring opens its doors wide, so follow, follow! Nothung, thy deliverance, and Siegmund, whose life is thy love, go with thee."
He seized her with the violent tenderness of love, and drew her to him. Straight in front of them opened the door into the house of spring, and it was fair. Yet, since he knew not yet who it was he led out with him, she spoke, even as he led her forth.
"Siegmund, Siegmund," she said, "O take me, take me. Thy longing has led thee to me. Is the flash of my eyes like the flash in the eye of Walse thy father? So be it: for who else should be like him but I? The burned homestead, the vanished sister, dost thou forget them? By the sword, even as Walse said, thou winnest her."
And for one moment Siegmund gazed at her in wild amaze. Then, for the spring was hot in his blood, and it was so written in the Book of Fate, to which even Wotan bows, whether he lords it in heaven, or as Walse he strides in the forest, there was no stop or stay for his passion.
"My bride, my sister!" he said, "brother and bridegroom long for you. For the blood of the Wolsungs will blossom yet."
Not far from the house of Hunding, but above the great wood of pines that with their dark plumes fringed the hillside opposite, there was a region of wild and bleak rocks, where, if any breeze stirred below, here it was as a strong wind. And if storm was coming over the earth, here above all would the clouds gather, and gloom and mix together till the power of the heavens willed that they should go on their appointed journeys of wrath or mercy to the thirsty earth. Thus the Valkyries, the wild maidens of the storm, were often wont to come here, riding on the wings of the wind, for their joy was in tempest and strife, and they cared little for peace and content, and their home was with the thunder, and the lightning was the lantern they loved best. At other times, when the heavens were clear, and the benediction of the sun brooded over the earth, here, above the woods and the damp and sorry lowlands, was its light the most serene and bright. Pure blew the airs as they blew to the mariner in the shrouds of his ship, and on all sides carved out to infinite distance lay vales and mountain peaks and ridges of hills, folded and knit the one into the other as the muscles of a strong man's arm rise and fall into ridge and furrow where his strength abides.
Thus it way that Wotan the king of the gods often came here, for here it was that he would be like to find his daughter Brunnhilde, the eldest of the Valkyries, and of all living things the dearest to him; and from here, as from a fortress home, she and her sisters, having communed with their father, would start on their war-raids, riding on the storm, and dazzling the souls of men with their beauty and their terror. And on the selfsame night, that first of spring, when spring and love awoke together in the hearts of Sieglinde and Siegmund, and maddened them with their sweetness, Wotan with his daughter Brunnhilde had sat night-long on that serene mountain-top, and he, communing with her as he communed with his own soul, had spoken to her of that wild deed which the brother and sister, his children by the forest maiden, had committed. And in the deeps of his heart he guessed, though darkly as in a glass, that from Siegmund the Wolsung should come that man for whom he waited, one free and owing nothing to the favour of the gods, who alone should be able to bring back to him the ring of the Rhine-gold, in whose circlet lay the wealth of the world and unmeasured might, even as Erda had foretold to him. Nor did the mating of this strange pair amaze or disquiet him, for they loved with that love which is the fire of the earth, and without which the earth would grow cold, and to his eyes that fire, from whatever fuel it was kindled, was a thing sacred beyond compare; while of the vows of a loveless marriage, such as Sieglinde's had been, he recked nought, nor scrupled to scatter it to the winds, even as a man on an autumn day scatters the thistledown on the breezy uplands, and cares nought where the winds may take it. For as light as thistledown to him were loveless vows, but love, even though no vow may hallow it, he held more sacred than his own oath.
So when the day dawned, he rose from the rock where he had been sitting, and Brunnhilde rose from her place by his knee.
"Up then to horse, my maid," he cried, "and be strong and swift to aid. Ere long the clash of arms shall be heard, and Bunding follow hard on Siegmund's trail. Up then, Brunnhilde, and put might into the heart of Siegmund the Wolsung, and strength into his arm. I reck nothing of Bunding, for he is no son of light, but of darkness. So to horse and away; get thee to Siegmund's side."
Then loud and long Brunnhilde shouted her cry of war, so that the rocks re-echoed, and far away from the muffled hillside of pines came the response.
Then ere she went, she climbed quickly to the topmost pinnacle of the ridge of rocks, and looking down into the ravine behind, she saw one whom she knew coming quickly up, and with a sweet sort of malice in her heart she called to her father Wotan.
"Fly, father, fly!" she cried, half laughter, half pity for him. "Let the king of gods be seen to fly for his safety, for a storm for thyself sweeps hither swiftly. Fricka thy wife is near on thy trail, driving her chariot with its harnessed rams. Up the path she comes; canst thou not hear the strokes of her golden whip, which like a flail she is plying? Listen to the bleatings of her belaboured steeds, listen to the rattling of her whirling wheels, while to guide her path to thee, anger flares like a beacon in her face. Father, dear father, such fights as these are little to my liking, for Brunnhilde would sooner meet the armed strength of men than the spirted venom of a woman's tongue and her war of words. Meet thou this fight as thou best may, for in such case I love to desert thee, and laughing I desert thee now. Yet I will wait hard by till Fricka has gone, and once more talk with thee ere I go to aid Siegmund."
Then once again, turning a look of love and laughter on her father, Brunnhilde shouted her joyous war-cry so that the distant hills replied, and sped quickly away until Fricka should have done with Wotan. With love shining in his eyes for her, he saw her go, and with anger and misgiving in his heart he saw his wife approach, knowing that a war of words was before him. For well he knew that she had come on this selfsame matter of Siegmund and Sieglinde, for so lawless a deed was an outrage to her. Yet was Wotan's purpose undismayed, and he swore to himself that she should find him steadfast in his resolve to aid Siegmund.
Now Fricka, though she was Wotan's wife, was not the companion of his heart; for she was cold and hard of nature, and nought that was human beat in her bosom. And by the great human heart of Wotan, in whose nostrils love was the breath of life, this wife of his was honoured indeed and much feared, but it was not to her he whispered at dark, nor told the secret troubles and joys of his soul. And when he saw her driving down the path, though he marvelled at her beauty, he had no word of tender welcome for her, and indeed her face was one flame of anger.
"Here in these heights where thou hidest from me, thy wife," she said, "I seek and find thee. Give me thy oath that thou wilt help me."
Then said Wotan, "What ails thee, wife?"
"Hunding's cry for vengeance has come to my ears," said she. "And well it might, for, as thou knowest, I am the goddess of marriage and marriage vows. Thus I listened in horror and holy indignation to the tale I heard, and I have sworn that Siegmund and Sieglinde, who have thus put him to shame so foully and madly, should pay for their sin. So help me, swear that thou wilt help me, that the two may reap their right reward. For shameful and impious is the deed that has been done."
Even as she spoke a little red flower blossomed at Wotan's feet, opening suddenly at the dawn of this sweet spring morning, and above his head two birds mated in mid-air, and his heart was warm within him with the instinct of the spring-time. "It is the spell of the spring," he thought to himself. "Love and spring drove mad both man and woman, and if there is blame, the blame is there." Aloud he said—
"O Fricka, it is spring-time!" and almost a tear of tenderness for the frail race of men he so loved started to his eye.
But Fricka answered him in anger. "The marriage vow has been broken," she cried, "and though that is not all, yet that is enough. Hunding's house is dishonoured, honoured, and I hate those who have dishonoured it."
"And did love hallow that marriage vow?" cried Wotan. "Was not Sieglinde carried by force to her marriage feast? Love's hand signed not the bond, and where love is not, there the most solemn vow turns impious. But a stranger came, and love stirred at last for him and her. And where love stirs, there is true marriage, and those stirrings of love I abet, I approve."
"Be it so," said Fricka; "let us say that the loveless wedlock is unholy, that it is best honoured when broken. But that is not all, and thou knowest it. For is it holy that two twins should seek each other thus? Ah! Wotan, my head reels and my senses are bewildered when I think of that. Brother and sister? When has it happened that a man should marry his neighbour in his mother's womb? When has that happened?"
But Wotan looked at her gently.
"It has happened now," he said. "Wife, is there nought left for us to learn? Thou knowest, thou knowest well that between the two there burns the authentic fire of love. It has happened. Siegmund and Sieglinde have so loved. Therefore, as I do, bless their union and blame it not. It is spring-time too."
Then was Fricka's wrath so kindled that it seemed as if she had been calm before and was now angry for the first time, and with storm she descended on him.
"Then is our godhead perished!" she cried, "since thou didst beget thy godless Wolsungs. Do you think that I shall follow thee on such a road? For the stones of it are shame, and shameful is the foot that treads thereon. Hunding's cry goes up unanswered, and all that was holy thou tramplest on. All this because the twins that thou begottest, in unfaithfulness to me thy wife, have dared to do this impious deed. Vows! what are vows to thee? Thou boldest none sacred. I have ever been true to thee, and ever thou hast betrayed my truth. There is no mountain top that has not seen, no vale that has not concealed some pleasure of thine, pleasure that scorned and dishonoured my faithfulness. When thou wentest to Erda, and begottest the brood of Valkyries, Brunnhilde the first, I bore it, for Erda was ever noble, and such adventure was not altogether base. But now like a common man thou goest on thy foul adventures, haunting the forest till men call thee the Wolf, or passing under the name of Walse. There is no plumb-line to measure the depths of thy shame, so deep is that abyss. These hast thou begotten of a mere woman, a she-wolf, these twins. And now thou flingest me at the feet of thy she-wolfs litter. Ah, mete out the full measure of my shame. Thou hast betrayed me, and now thou stampest me beneath thy feet and the feet of thy children of shame."
Wotan answered her not at once, for indeed there is no use in answering an angry woman, and he knew well that there were certain things that Fricka would never know. For her mind moved not from that little circle in which it was wont to go round, and all that had not happened, but which was still among the unfound things of the world, was outside her understanding. But Wotan knew that all heaven and earth was waiting for a hero who should come, who should make the old things new, and repair that which was outworn. He should be one who was utterly free, not sheltered or befriended by the gods, and not serving their laws. Nor might the gods help in this work, for their work was of an earlier day, and he who should come must pass beyond them both in thought and deed. Yet as Fricka still said nothing, but stood with heaving bosom, he spoke of him who should come whom he knew, though darkly, should be of the wild Wolsungs. Yet he knew also she would understand not. Nor did she understand, but answered him according to her own sightlessness, saying that since all that was done on earth was the work of men, whose life lay in the hands of the gods, what was there a man could do which was forbidden to the gods?
"For who," cried she, "put might into men except thou, or who but thou put courage into their hearts, and strength into their arms? Thou only. Yet now thou sayest that one will come of thy Wolsung breed who is outside and beyond. Dost then think to trick me thus? Surely I know that he, like all other men, must be subservient to thy will. It is to shield thy shameful twins that thou sayest this. It is by thy will alone he walks."
"Not so," said Wotan; "for when Siegmund seized the sword, he did it of his own might. In nought did I help him there. By the might of that sword he walks alone, not upheld by my power."
Then Fricka, for in her woman's way she was cunning, saw her path.
"Then shield him no further," she said quietly, "and take back thy sword, the sword that thou hast given him."
"How can I?" said he. "For Siegmund won it for himself in his need, and Siegmund's it is."
"But from thee," said she, "came not only the sword, but the need. In those days, when thou didst fling the sword at the ash-stem, I followed hard on thee, and saw thy deed, Who flung it there? Thou, Wotan. Who led Siegmund's hand to the hilt? Who but thou? Thou knewest where the sword was; in the presence of Sieglinde thou didst place it there. From thee, through her, the knowledge of it came to him. How canst thou say then that this Siegmund of thine is the hero that should come, since it is through thee he works?"
Then was Wotan both wroth and sorry, for he knew that Fricka spoke truth, yet he would have shielded Siegmund from her wrath. And she, seeing that she shook his will, spoke freely and calmly.
"Lo, the master does not war with slaves," she said, "nor fight for them. But thou and I, Wotan, are gods and equal. And I, whose soul and body are yet at thy bidding, wilt thou shame me and the vows I uphold before a mere man? Shall I be a laughter to the scornful, and shall men make merry over my down-fall in their homes? Thou wilt not have it so; I know thou wilt not. My godhead is more to thee than that."
"What wilt thou then?" said he.
"That thou stand aside from the Wolsung."
Then Wotan was sore distressed and very heavy at heart "Let him go," said he, and his voice was low and troubled; "I will not stay him, nor shalt thou."
"Then shield him not nor shelter him," said she, "when vengeance follows on him."
Then did Wotan remember that he had bidden Brunnhilde to aid him, and it was ill to fight against Brunnhilde. Thus perhaps might Siegmund be safe. So he swore to Fricka that he would not shield nor shelter him. Yet Fricka was not yet satisfied.
"Look in my face, Wotan," she said. "Thou sayest thou wilt not shield him, neither shall thine shield him. No aid must he obtain from thy Valkyrie maidens."
"The Valkyries go where they will," said he, "and I have no power over them."
"So that was thy thought!" said Fricka. "It shall not be so. Thy will directs them; let it direct them that they turn not to Siegmund."
Then Wotan clenched his hands together, for this way and that was he torn. On the one side stood Siegmund his son, whom he must needs aid for the sake of the promise he had given with the sword; on the other, Fricka his wife. And in his agony he cried aloud—
"How can I slay him? It was he who found my sword."
"Let it be to him only a sword then," said Fricka, "and not the sword of Wotan, or break it in his hand, so that Hunding has him defenceless. O, Wotan," and as she spoke he knew in his heart her nobility and uprightness, for all that she was cold and hard, "O, Wotan, thou lovest me not, and I know it, yet shield my honour for never have I brought dishonour on thine. I ever upheld the marriage vow, and how would the sons of men laugh, and how would the glory of the gods be diminished, should thy daughter Brunnhilde not uphold it this day. How would lawlessness and unhallowed lust be master among men. By Siegmund's death alone is my honour upheld, for he has sinned against me. So swear to it, Wotan."
Even as she spoke Wotan heard again the joyful war-cry of Brunnhilde, who, supposing that his strife with Fricka was over, was coming nigh to where they stood, and he remembered in his heart how so short time ago he had bade her warn and shelter Siegmund. Yet he could in nought gainsay his wife, and in sorrow find heaviness he cast himself down on the rocky seat where he had sat with his maiden. And his voice came hollow and broken, like an echo buffeted against rocks.
"I give thee mine oath!" said he.
"I give thee mine oath!" said he.
"I give thee mine oath!" said he.
Then having the oath of Wotan which he might not break, Fricka turned at once from him, for she had accomplished her purpose, and went where she had left her chariot drawn by rams. Near by was Brunnhilde standing with her horse, and as she passed her—
"Thy father waits for thee," she said. "Go thee and learn from him that which he has chosen." Then mounting her chariot, she lashed the rams with her golden whip, and they sped down the mountain-side.
But Brunnhilde had heard Fricka laugh as she mounted her chariot, the which boded no good thing to her father Wotan; and as she approached him she saw that he leaned his head on his hand in great heaviness, and was as one utterly cast down.
"Father, father, what is it?" she said. "What sorrow holds thee? Never have I seen thee so."
Then Wotan's arm dropped, and his head sank on his bosom. "I am bound by the fetters I have forged," said he. "All are free but I, the lord of all. O shame, O bitter ill-hap, and worm that dies not. There is no sorrow so heavy as mine!"
Then did Brunnhilde drop her spear and helmet in sudden alarm and forgetfulness, and in the hope to soothe and comfort him, for never had she seen him so. She laid loving hands upon his knees, and sat herself at his feet, and asked him tenderly to tell her what had befallen, for his look frightened and amazed her. So she besought him to tell her all, for she was ever true to him, and ever had he trusted her. Then by slow degrees Wotan aroused himself, and laid a hand on her bright hair, which he caressed lovingly. But when he spoke his voice seemed to come from afar, for his mind had been brooding on that which had been long ago, and on that which time to come should bring out of what had been, for out of the womb of the past is born what shall be. And dim and dark was his voice, even as that on which he thought had been dim and dark, and he spoke slowly and with many pauses, of days long dead, and of days yet far off, the heirs of ages not yet born. But through-out he looked earnestly into Brunnhilde's eyes, for she was his most own, and when he looked there, he saw himself and his own will and purpose.
"In days of old," said he, "when the first heat of youth was passed, I set myself to win the world, and all craft in bargains was mine, and, so that I worked my will, I stooped to any falsehood. Yet never for long could I withhold myself from love, and its sweetness ever allured my senses and my might. But Alberich, that son of night, who inhabits the dark places of the earth, had forsworn all love, and since he never yielded to it, but cursed it, he won for himself the secret treasure of the gold which abode in mid-Rhine, and by its might, for it is the world's wealth, reached his hands about the world. Yet by guile I got it from him, and with it I paid the giants who built me the walls of Walhalla that are a rein and a bridle to the world. Then once again was I safe. Yet Erda gave me words of warning about the ring, and told me that Walhalla itself would fall, yet could tell me nought fully, till with the spell of love upon her she spake. Yet that selfsame spell of love between her and me gave me thyself, Brunnhilde, and thy eight sisters of the storm. With you I thought to make Walhalla safe, and I bade you slay and bring to be its guardians and the protection of its walls heroes and men of might, who should guard it well. Eternal life I breathed into them, and a mighty host uprose."
Then Brunnhilde smiled at him.
"And have we not done thy bidding?" she asked. "What cause for sadness is here? For the defenders of Walhalla are many in multitude: all these we have brought thee, as thou didst bid us."
Then spake Wotan again, his eyes dwelling ever on Brunnhilde.
"Moved by that spell of love, Erda told me where fear was. It is from Alberich the end will come to the gods, their evening, their dusk, if once again he gets the ring. While he has it not, I fear not him nor the hosts of night that he brings with him, for well Walhalla is guarded by heroes. But in pay for the building of Walhalla I gave it to the giant Fafner, who guards it ever and since I gave it him, I may not take it from him, for the bargain I made with him forbids me. Nor must he who shall take it from him owe ought to me; he must be a free man, who for his own need, and without help from me, shall wrest it from Fafner. Ah, where to find him? How direct his course, yet without aiding or protecting him? His might unaided must accomplish my wish. Wherever I work, there see I the fruits of my work, that which my hands have made. But he who shall take the treasure from Fafner must be free, unfettered, no slave or creation of mine."
Then Brunnhilde started up, for she saw what was in Wotan's mind.
"It is he then, Siegmund the Wolsung, who shall do this thing!" she cried. "Ever has he been unblessed and unhallowed of the gods."
But Wotan shook his head.
"So thought I," said he, "and with that thought in my heart, I reared him ever to work against the gods, so that he owed nought to us. Nothing has he but the sword he himself found. Yet, that was mine. It was I who gave him both sword and the need by which he found it. Scornfully Fricka unfolded that to me, piercing my soul to its uttermost. And thus I must serve her will."
Then wild amaze seized hold on Brunnhilde.
"Then dost thou forsake Siegmund?" she cried.
At that a wild tumult of rage and despair seized on the god, for the words of Erda, which she had told him, grew clear to him.
"The curse is fallen on me," he cried; "and though I flee from it, it still follows me. For when I stole the ring of the Rhine-gold from Alberich, he said that what I loved I must needs forsake, and that him whom I trusted I must do to death. Even so it is. Behold the dusk deepens round me, and I hope for one thing only, the end. And on the end thinks Alberich, for the wild words of Erda, which never till now did I fathom, grow clear to me. For she said that when the dark enemy of love begets a son, then too is begotten the fall of the gods. And this too has happened, for Alberich has lovelessly bought a woman's undoing, and already the weeks of her deliverance are numbered, and the child waxes in her womb. Yet I for all my wooing could never beget that which I need, that free man of whom I spake. Oh! my bitterest blessing on thy work, Alberich; already I grow wan with the approaching end; already my godhead is but a tawdry mask. Bare thy fangs then: let thy hate and thy hunger make meat of me!"
The words died on his lips, and despair like a wave overwhelmed him. Then Brunnhilde nestled yet nearer to him, and the child-instinct within her spake, if so be she might comfort him.
"Father, father," she said, "what can thy child do?"
Then Wotan laughed bitterly.
"Fight Fricka's battles," said he, "and range thyself with her marriage vows and plighted troths. Siegmund is not the free man my soul longs for. So range thyself with Fricka's champion, the noble Hunding. Even so: death is decreed for Siegmund; be swift and brave to compass that. Thou wilt need all thy boldness, my child, for he is no coward whom Walse taught in the woods, and swift is his sword. Nor wilt thou find a foeman who fears thee; his eye will flinch not, though he beholds thee in all thy strength and terror."
Scarcely then could Brunnhilde believe what she seemed to hear, for she knew that her father loved Siegmund, and that the Wolsung was dear to his soul. Ever had he taught her to love him, for Siegmund was dauntless of heart, and knew not what fear was.
"It cannot be," she cried, "never can I lift my arm against him!"
Then Wotan rose in wrath, for it was as if his will disobeyed him when Brunnhilde was rebel, for indeed the maid was none other than his will.
"Thou darest? Thou darest?" he cried. "And does fear not look in thine eyes at the thought of disobedience? Am I a mock to thee? Indeed there will be for thee an end of mocking if thou rousest my wrath. For there is woe to any with whom Wotan is wrath, for I walk with the thunder at my call, and my hand holds and steers the lightning. Think thou of that, and gave good heed. Thou knowest my will; see that thou performest it. Siegmund is numbered with the dead, and by Brunnhilde's hand shall that numbering be accomplished."
And he stormed forth in fury, the lightning flickering about his path, and left Brunnhilde there.
Very slowly she armed herself.
Very slowly she armed herself.
Never before had he gone from her in anger, and she sat long where he had left her, wondering what this should mean, and what the day should bring forth. Oftentimes in hour of war had she seen him girt about with fury, but now it was she whom his rage threatened. Then she stooped down, and picked up again her spear and helmet and shield which she had laid on the ground when she spake with Wotan, and very slowly, with the joy of war altogether gone from her heart, she armed herself. For indeed her heart was not in this fight, and she went out to it with no joyful war-cry as was her wont. For the battle was against her friend, whom Wotan had ever taught her to love, and the wild Wolsung Siegmund had all her life been dear to her. Yet must Wotan's best be obeyed.
So she turned and would have gone on her joyless errand, when suddenly she was aware that two were approaching up the rocky height; and as they came more nigh she saw they were none other than Siegmund and Sieglinde. Then pity so seized on her that she was but as wax, and, lest her will should fail utterly, she turned again quickly and went to the cavern hard by where she had tethered her horse on the coming of Fricka. Heavily she went to him, for the work before her was bitter and grievous to her.
Swiftly came Sieglinde up the rocky path, and Siegmund followed hard after her, bidding her rest and not fare so wildly on; for after that the spell of spring and of love had so wrought within her that she recked nothing of leaving the house and hearth of Hunding, and the transport and sweet madness of her love had been fulfilled, horror and dread had seized the woman's heart, and she was distraught with unspeakable dismay at her wild adventure. Then had she risen up from his side in the middle of the spring night, even while he, filled full of love, was sleeping, to escape from what she had done. But at her stirring he had awoke, and through the hours betwixt that and day had he followed after her, she still flying from him through field and forest. For at first on that evening of yesterday, which in the morning's light seemed to her so long ago, the torrent of her love had carried her unthinking, but now it seemed to her that her deed was altogether unholy. Utterly had she loved the man, and utterly was his love hers, and so great was the might of that and the transport of its power, that in its first outpouring it seemed to her that all else was of no import beside it. But afterwards she had thought on what she had done, and shame and horror burned within her with as fierce a flame. Loveless had her marriage with Hunding been, yet marriage it was, and hallowed by the ordinance of the gods. But this was lawlessness incarnate, and unnatural wedlock. Yet in her woman's heart she blamed Siegmund not at all; the blame in her mind was wholly hers. She had brought shame on herself, but that was a small thing compared to the shame in which she had made him a partaker.
But now for very weariness her limbs could bear her no further, and at the top of the rocky path nigh to where Wotan and Brunnhilde had sat that night, she faltered, and it was his arm that saved her from falling.
"Wait, wait," he whispered. "Speak to me, and let us have done with this dumbness of fear. Thou art safe; my arm encompasseth thee; there is no fear while thou leanest on my breast."
At his touch, again the eternal woman of her nature awoke, and as he led her very gently to the very seat where Wotan had sat with Brunnhilde by his knee, she clung passionately to him, and gazing long into his face, embraced him. Yet even while her lips met his, the horrors of the night rose insurgent within her, and again she flung herself off from him, shame branding her, as a felon is branded.
"Siegmund, Siegmund!" she cried. "What have we done? Shame on me, shame on me!"
"Shame there has been, Sieglinde," said he, "and that when thou didst abide in the house of Hunding. But that shame shall I soon wash away with his blood, and in that crimson stream shall it be cleansed. Ah, fare not on so wildly; wait here, for I am well assured that he will come here in pursuit, and here also shall he meet the fate which has been appointed by him who in my sorest need granted me to find the sword. O sword of my need," cried he, and his fingers tightened on its hilt, "not in vain have I called on the name of vengeance. Surely I will repay."
Then was she a little quieted at his loving touch, and at the fierceness of surety of his hate towards Hunding, but soon she started up and listened.
"Horns, I hear horns!" she cried, "and the shouts of the pursuers. The shouts of the pursuers sound ever nearer, and strike the sky and echo from the hills. Hunding has woke from his night-draught, and is hot of foot on the trail. He calls on his kindred to help him, and loosens the hounds of hunting. They nose thy trail, and thirstily they give voice, and their thirst waits to be assuaged by blood."
Loudly and in panic terror she cried, but at the end her voice failed, and her arm outflung dropped nerveless, and over her weary eyes drooped the shelter of her eyelids.
"Siegmund, where art thou?" she murmured. "Where art thou? I search for thy look; oh, let it light on me again; leave me not, Siegmund, oh, leave me not. Hark, hark! again I hear that deep baying of the hounds of death; they thirst for thy blood, and their fangs white and sharp grow red with the meat of their hunting. They reck not of thy sword, so fling it away. Hide, let us hide where none shall find us. Thy sword is shattered; what toy-thing is this?—thou fallest reeling ... Siegmund ... Siegmund...."
At that her head drooped and she sank like a thing broken in his arms. It was in vain that he tried to rouse her, and only by the rise and fall of her bosom did he know she lived. So very gently—for, after the labour and travel of the night, it might be that she would sleep—he laid her back on the ground, and made for her a pillow of his knee, to rest her head. But she moved not, nor opened her eyes, yet, for her bosom still rose gently and fell, he comforted himself, and bending over her kissed her on the forehead. Thus they sat, and he grieved over her.
But by now had Brunnhilde put bridle again on to her horse Grane, and led him lightly out of the cavern, and came upon Siegmund and his bride sitting thus. And he was aware of her coming, and looked up, and saw her glorious face; but there was no smile there, for the work before her gave no joy to her. Gravely she looked at him, and her heart was stirred with sorrow for the deed that her father had laid on her to do, and her eyes burned large with doom.
"Siegmund, I am here," she said, "and from here soon I lead thee. Thou seest that I am near thee?"
And Siegmund answered: "Yes, but I know thee not," and a strange cold heaviness was lead in his limbs and in his eye.
"I come near to those whom death comes near to," said she, "and none others see me. He into whose eyes I look stays not in the light. With me thou goest, and thou goest with me far."
Then something of the great calm with which death is ever girt about, struck on Siegmund's heart, but he was not afraid.
"And where goest thou?" he asked.
"I go to Walhalla," said she, "where the great father waits thee. There lovingly will the hands of dead heroes greet thee; with hands outstretched and with smile of welcome will they greet thee."
"And shall I find there Walse, the Wolsung's father?" said he in wonder.
"His face too shall greet thee."
"And will there be a woman there too, to greet me?" asked he.
"Yea, surely," said she. "The maidens of his will are there, and she who will hand thee the gladsome wine is Wotan's daughter. Red is that wine, and with it are the hearts of heroes made glad."
But it was not after Wotan's daughter that Siegmund asked, and again he said:
"O most holy and austere of maidens, Wotan's child, truth is written in thine eyes, and truth thou wilt tell me. It is not of such I ask, but of my bride Sieglinde. Will she be there?"
But Brunnhilde shook her head.
"Death comes not for her yet," she said, "and she shall not be there."
Then Siegmund laughed.
"Then get thee back to Walhalla," cried he, "and give my greeting to the high walls of Wotan, and to him who sits therein and is lord thereof. And greet for me Walse"—for he knew not that Walse his father was none other than Wotan—"and greet the many heroes and the maidens of the will of the highest. But I come not after thee."
Then Brunnhilde was very sorry, yet what was to be, was to be.
"Siegmund," she said, "thou hast looked on me, and with me thou must go. Lightly thou reckest of mortal foes, for thy limbs are strong, but the wise man wars not against death. I am here to claim thee for him."
But though a chill seemed to fall round Siegmund, as if the sun had passed behind a cloud, yet was he not afraid; and, lo! his dear burden still leaned at his knee.
"I come not," he said, "for where Sieglinde is, in weal or woe, there I abide, and go not thence. Thy face daunts me not, I shrink not before thy glance, though bright it is with the brightness of danger. Besides, who is it that deals death to me?"
"The hand of Hunding," she said. "For thus—at last—the lot was cast."
But Siegmund only smiled, and his fingers dwelt lovingly on the sword-hilt.
"I fear not that," he said, "for it is by my hand that he will fall, and if thou seekest a dead man, I will give thee a corpse, but not mine. Look at my sword, for he who let me gain it, promised my safety. Thus thy threats and thy warning are idle words, the buzzing of a fly."
Then Brunnhilde's face grew stern and set.
"He who let thee gain the sword," she cried in a loud voice, "now is determined otherwise, and has decreed thy death. Thus the magic of the sword is a thing of nought, a shadow that has passed away."
But at her raised voice, Siegmund forgot death and the sword and all else, and feared only that she would wake Sieglinde, who now slept gently.
"Be still, be still," he whispered, "and wake her not."
And he bent over her, and sorrowed for her, for it seemed to him that all the world was gathered against her whom he loved so well, and that he alone, for whom she had braved the wrath of men and gods, was on her side. Should then he forsake her? And if, as the maid had told him, the giver of the sword was now unfaithful, and decreed him death, then he would have none of his Walhalla; Hella were sweeter to his troubled soul. High burned his anger at this unfaithfulness, and he turned to the maid who stood watching him.
"If then death is decreed for me," he said, "think you I will be at ease in Walhalla? Nay, Hella rather than such peace."
Then Brunnhilde's stem glance softened, and she marvelled that he so loved the woman.
"Then is eternal joy so worthless to thee?" she asked him softly. "Dost thou desire nothing but the woman who is sleeping there? Is nought else sweet to thy soul, and nought else desirable?"
And he looked at her with bitterness, and marked the softened glance of her eye. Yet though she appeared so young and so maidenly, her heart must needs be utterly cold, since she did not comprehend how a woman filled the heart of the man who loved her.
"Dost thou mock me?" he said. "For what else could I care than that which lies here? I think thou art a foe to me, and would gladly see harm and woe come to me. Be it so; and may my grief satisfy the greed and hunger of thy heart. But as for Walhalla—it is idle for thee to name it to me. Dost thou not see? Here is my heaven and my rest."
Then she began to understand the need of his heart, and with that she felt a tenderness for both him and the woman which was new to her.
"Yes, yes," she said, "I feel what thou feelest. But, Siegmund, what must be, must be. Leave her then to me. Safely and surely will I ward her and keep all harm from her."
And she would have lifted Sieglinde up and taken her to some hiding-place of safety, but he stopped her.
"Stay," said he, "she is mine, mine, and no other shall touch her. If so be that I must die, as thou sayest, it is better, it is better—for all the whole world is against her—that she should die, here, now. I will slay her myself as she sleeps, and death will come softly to her as a dream. Thus she will be at peace."
Then did the tumult and trouble in Brunnhilde's heart seethe and stir.
"No, no!" she cried. "Listen to me, for thou speakest wild words. The sacred pledge of love which thou hast given, for that I plead. Siegmund, Siegmund, thou canst not slay thy son!"
Yet he drew the sword, and brandished it.
"His is the blame," he cried, "who promised me victory with this sword, who now turns his back on me, faithless and untrue. Yet shall it aid me, for that with it I can give peace to her. Strike then, sword of need, sever both lives at once."
But at the sight of his sword uplifted to strike, all the woman in Brunnhilde rose invincible, and the solemn command of Wotan that she should fight for Hunding weighed lighter than chaff. In a moment her mind was made, and counting not the cost, she knew that she must needs befriend Siegmund and fight for him, and the thunders and terrors of Wotan had no weight with her. And with a cry she stayed his arm.
"Ah, I break," she cried. "I cannot do the deed that was laid on me. She shall live, she shall live, and instead of death I will bring thee the joy of victory. No longer fight I for Hunding; it is thee, Siegmund, whom my shield will shelter. So up, up; already the horns of battle sound nearer. What shall be, I cannot tell, but the sword thou wieldest is good steel, and the shield of me, Brunnhilde, will guard thee in the coming fight. Hail to thee, Siegmund, hail! At the fight I await thee."
All her face was afire with human love and pity, and so great a change was there from the look of that stern cold maiden and her pitiless beauty, that Siegmund could scarce believe that this was the same Brunnhilde. But at her words, joy and gladness uplifted him, and his heart, erstwhile full of despair and bitterness, was once more strong and hopeful. But Brunnhilde tarried not, for indeed, as she said, the horns of battle sounded near, but swung herself on to her horse, and rode swiftly off among the rocks towards the horns and approaching battle, and the noise of her horse's hoofs sounded fainter, and then was silent.
Now as they thus spoke together, behold the heavens had grown very black, and over the bright aspect of the sky had ridden swiftly up the storm-rack, low and sullen-looking, and torn into streamers and ribands of wrath. Already the hills and vales beyond had been entirely blotted out, and by now the clouds had reached even to that rocky ridge not far from where Siegmund sat, while mingled with the trouble and menace of the heavens came the blast of the horns of battle sounding ever nearer, and Siegmund knew that it was time for him to be gone to meet the black foe who awaited him. Then very gently he got up, and without waking Sieglinde, laid her back against the rocky seat, and once more bent over her, to see how she fared. The blessed balm of sleep had been spread over her eyes, and she was at rest, and her heart was unconscious of the wild alarms of war. And Siegmund wondered whether it was the maiden, who seemed so fierce and cold, but whose soul at the end had been touched with so gentle and womanly a pity, who had shed this gift on the woman, thinking that the clash of swords and the din of battle would daunt her. Then even as he bent over her she smiled in her sleep, as if some happy dream had come to her. So he kissed her very gently on the forehead, marvelling that the trumpet-calls, which grew swiftly nearer, disturbed her not, and whispered to her—
"Sleep sound, beloved, till the battle be overpast, and peace, the peace of victory, welcome thy waking."
Then for the last time he turned from her, for peace was not yet, until Nothung his sword had spoken sharp words with its flaming tongue. Swiftly he strode up the rocky ridge, where the embattled thunder-clouds swallowed him up, nor was there any fear in his heart: only he longed to see Hunding face to face, and drive vengeance home.
But Sieglinde lay there smiling in her sleep, for it was even as Siegmund had supposed, and she was a child again living with her mother in the forest. Yet even as Siegmund left her, the tranquillity of her sleep was shaken, and it seemed to her that her father and the boy Siegmund were in the forest together, and though the hour was late, they had not yet returned. And she cried to her mother that her heart misgave her, for she was troubled with the looks and the words of certain strangers. Then in her dream the sweet air of the forest grew foul and black, and smoke swirled silently out of the woods, and tongues and fingers of flame came nearer, and the house where they dwelt caught fire. Then aloud she cried on Siegmund to save her, and with her own cry awoke. Yet was it not perhaps her own cry that woke her, but the sudden and sharp din of thunder near by, and starting up she saw she was alone, and all round her were storm-clouds of awful blackness, and from one to another shot the fires of lightning, and the thunder bellowed when it saw them. And mixed with the lightnings and thunders were the red cries of the horns of battle. Then, and her heart stood still when she heard, from not far off came the voice of Hunding, which she knew well and hated.
"Wehwalt, Wehwalt!" it cried, calling her beloved by the name he had shed as trees shed their leaves in autumn. "Where are thou? Wait for me; I am coming swiftly; else shall my hounds make thee stay."
Then in answer came the voice she knew and loved; "Think not to hide from me, Hunding," it cried, "for all that the storm is so black and blinding. The father of the gods himself shall not hide thee from me. Stay where thou art and I will surely find thee."
And his voice grew louder as he spake, so she knew that he was coming nearer.
Then from the ridge close behind came Hunding's voice again, not a stone's-throw off, yet in the thick darkness she could see nought.
"O shameful wooer!" it cried. "In Fricka's hand is thy lot set."
And immediately Siegmund answered, being also come to the selfsame ridge—
"Still dost thou think I am weaponless, coward and fool that thou art? Thinkest thou to terrify me by thy woman-champion? Fight me, fight me. Remember thou the sword in thy house which none could move. Lightly I unsheathed it, and its tongue shall lick up thy life-blood; for thy life-blood it thirsts, and soon will I give it to drink."
Then came a flash of lightning from the cloud, and Sieglinde saw them as phantoms on the edge of the ridge already at fight And she rushed towards it, not being able to bear that sight, calling loudly on them to stay, or first to kill her, and then settle their quarrel. But ere she was come to the ridge, a blinding light broke out of the cloud above the head of Siegmund, so strong and glorious that she was dazzled and fell back from before it. But in the middle of that light there appeared Brunnhilde floating there, and lo! her shield was held out so that it protected Siegmund and sheltered him. And she cried loudly to her hero, in a fierce merriment—
"Have at him, Siegmund; thy sword is safe under my shield."
Then was Siegmund's heart uplifted, and he drew back his arm for a deadly stroke at Hunding, when even as it was about to fall, right over Hunding's head broke out a red and lurid light, full of wrath and anger, and in the midst stood Wotan, standing over the other, with his spear outstretched over against Siegmund. And in the voice at which all earth and heaven trembles—
"Thy sword is shivered, Siegmund," said he. "Wotan's spear is stretched against thee. Sink thou back from it."
Then did Brunnhilde quail in panic terror before her father, and her shield no longer covered Siegmund. And the mighty blow of his sword struck on that outstretched spear and was shivered, and into his breast did Hunding thrust his sword, so that he fell and moved no more. And Sieglinde, beholding, gave one bitter cry, and sank swooning to the ground. But as Siegmund fell, the great light which had shone round Brunnhilde was swallowed up in darkness, and the red light round Wotan was extinguished also. And under cover of the darkness Brunnhilde, though stricken sore with the fear of the wrath of Wotan, yet was mindful of the woman Sieglinde, whom she had sworn to befriend, and she stole down from the ridge crouching, yet firm of purpose, to her side.