THE COMING OF THE STRANGER
On a certain day then in this May month, when winter still held sway,
Hunding, as his custom was, had left the house armed with his spear
and sword and shield, as soon as the eyelids of the wind-swept morning
opened in the skies, and all day Sieglinde had been alone. All day too
a riotous storm had beset the place, so that she had stirred not from
the house, but when her work was done sat and listened to the bugling
blasts, half in fear, half in hope that this tempest and hurly-burly of
the skies might prove too strong for the cunning handiwork of Hunding,
and that the very house should fall upon her as she sat there, making
an end of her hopes and her hate. So strong was the tempest that she
feared Hunding might return before the day was over, but the hours
passed on, and still he came not; and towards the sunset she went into
the store-house, as her custom was, to make ready for his supper.
Shrill and loud blew the wind, so that the walls of the house
trembled with its violence, and the sheets of rain were flung
unceasingly against the building. For all that, it seemed to her that
by now some change had come over the day; no longer were the blasts
cold and piercing like those she had known now for months past, but
there was something of warmth and softness in them. And for all the
rain was so heavy, yet to her mind it was more like to the heavy and
fruitful rain of spring than the volleyings of winter tempests. All
this made within her a sort of eager restlessness; often during the
day she had started on some errand in her work, and had left it with
a sigh unfinished or had forgotten what she had intended; often too
she had looked at the sword-hilt gleaming against the dark ash-stem,
and thrills of unaccountable expectation had been hers suddenly and
unconjecturably sweet. But as the day went on, the storm grew even
fiercer, though it seemed to her that a warmth and languor was in the
air, and tardily enough and with limbs unstrung she went about the
time of sunset to the store-house. The bread she had made that morning
was there, and the venison which Hunding had killed two days before.
Then from the store she took honey to make mead for his drink, when
suddenly she heard the house door bang, and hate surged bitterly into
her throat, for she knew that it must be her husband come home. And
whether it was the coming of spring that troubled her blood or not, she
felt then for him such loathing as had never before been hers, and her
hand so trembled that she stayed a little within, till he should call
to her, or until she was more mistress of herself. But no sound came
from the hall, and after a little while, leaving the meat and the bread
and the honey there, she went to the door to see whether it was indeed
Hunding who had returned, for she wondered that he had not called to
her.
It was now dark, and only the gleam from the fire made a little
brightness in the hall, and for a moment she thought that it must have
been the wind only that had moved the door, for she saw none there,
neither Hunding nor another, but only the firelight crouching on the
hearth and leaping on the walls of the empty room, and gleaming very
brightly on the hilt of the sword which the stranger had buried in
the ash-stem on the day of her marriage. Then with a cry of surprise
she saw that a man was stretched out on the bear-skin by the hearth,
without movement, but lying like one dead. His face she could not see,
for it was turned away from her towards the fire, but he was tall in
stature, and his arm, bare to the shoulder, was strong and sinewy. His
clothes were ragged and drenched with the rain, but the firelight shone
on the hair that fell thickly to his shoulder, and it gleamed yellow in
the firelight like the honey she had just now drawn for her husband's
mead. And when she saw that she felt that for a moment a long-drawn
breath hung suspended in her bosom. Then, for here was a man sick
perhaps to death, and in need of help, the thought that had not yet
been consciously hers died again, and she went nearer to him. But still
the man did not move; only she saw that his tunic rose and fell with
the rising and falling of his breath, and she knew that whoever he was
he was not dead, but only fallen in sore faintness of exhaustion, and
that his eyelids, which had fallen over his eyes, so that the lashes
swept his cheek, were not closed in the sleep of death. And as she
thus looked at his face which was turned towards the firelight, again
a breath hung suspended in her bosom, for he was fair, not dark like
Hunding, and the short beard of early manhood which fringed his tip and
covered his chin was yellow, even as the honey which she had drawn for
her husband's mead.
Even as she looked, the man stirred, and though his eye did not open,
his tongue moved in his mouth, and--
"Water, water!" he whispered, and his voice was low and deep and soft.
At that Sieglinde stayed not in idle surmise, but pity for a man
distressed woke in her heart, pity and the woman's need to help, and
she took up Hunding's drinking-horn which she had laid on the table for
his supper, and hurried out of the house to where the well of water
sprang bubbling out of the mossy bed beneath the hawthorn trees. The
storm had altogether ceased, and in the heaven washed clean by the rain
the stars burned large. The chill of the long winter had gone, and the
balmy warmth of spring filled the air, and, even as she bent to fill
the horn at the runnel of water, close above her head a nightingale
burst into bubbling song. And she wondered, yet paused not to wonder,
but hurried back into the house with the horn brimful of the fresh
spring water.
So with the horn in her hand she returned, and found the stranger still
lying as she had left him, and into his nerveless hand she put the horn.
"Water," she said, "thou didst ask for water;" and he drank till the
horn was empty, yet still raised not his eyes.
"Water, water," he said; "thou hast given me water, and I give thee
thanks. Already----"
And he paused, and the bear-skin stood away from the braced arm.
"Already I am my own master again. That was all I needed."
Yet that was not all, for he sank back again to his elbow in the
bear-skins, and he gazed at her.
"Lady, I thank thee," said he. "Thou hast wakened me, thou hast
welcomed me. The sleep and darkness of my faintness stands away from
me. So tell me: whom is it that I thank?"
Just then the firelight died down, and from flame there was but
a mere glow on the walls. Only in the darkness the glow lit on the
hilt of the sword that a stranger on the day of her marriage feast had
thrust in the ash-stem, and on the head of a stranger who lay at the
hearth. Yet wondrously spring bubbled in her heart, though as yet she
knew nought but that only a wayfarer had happened here, and that she
had relieved his sore need.
[Illustration: "Lady, I thank thee."]
"The house is Hunding's," said she. "She who gave thee drink is the
wife of Hunding," and at that the hatred of her man rose bitter and
deadly in her throat "His guest--the guest of Hunding art thou. Abide
then here, he will soon be home."
Thereat a sudden log caught fire in the hearth, and in the blaze she
saw the colour fly to his face, and the light from the firelight
sparkle in his eyes. And they were grey, but blue was behind them, as
if a summer cloud flecked the open heaven.
"There is no harm," said he, still weak from his adventure, and
loth to meet her gaze; "I am without weapon. He would not grudge a
weaponless guest such harbourage, though his wife is alone with him and
tends to him. Also I am wounded."
"Wounded!" she cried; and again there was nought but pity in a woman's
heart for a man in distress, pity and the need to give help. "Where art
thou wounded? Let me see to thy hurt."
Again he raised his eyes to her, and at the sight his blood beat
quicker, and resumed its more wonted way, and, refreshed of his
faintness by the water she had brought him, he shook the hair back from
his white forehead, and though not yet enough himself to stand up, sat
erect on the bear-skin, rejoicing to feel the life return in warmth and
tingling to his limbs. And he thought no more of his wounds, for it was
of the gracious woman who faced him that he thought.
"Ah, they are nothing," he said. "They are not worth the words we
have already spent on them. See! my arms will serve me yet," and he
thrust out first one and then the other with vigour, so that the
muscles stood out on them like cords, and in turn he clenched his
hands. "Would that my shield and spear had served me as well," said he;
"then should I not have run from my foes, but my shield was shivered,
and my sword broken. Yes, I am a man who ran from his foes. What else
could I do? Often through the forest they were close behind me, and
often the branches through which I plunged had not yet closed behind
me, when one or another of my foes was lashed by the back-stroke of the
twigs. But now, faster than my flight my faintness leaves me. Faster
than the storm, which all day has buffeted me, riding on the wings of
the wind, my strength returns; my fear and the night and darkness which
closed over my senses roll away, and the sun comes out again."
Low burned the firelight on the hearth; and in the darkness she could
scarce see the stranger's face, but the music of his voice beat on her
ear, and within her, her heart beat in tune to it And a sudden tumult
shook her, and she sprang up, feeling the need to do something, not
to watch only for the upspringing of the fire so that she should see
him, nor to question him so that his voice should sound on her ear. So
again she took the drinking-horn of Hunding, and fetched honey from the
store-chamber, and made within it the yellow mead, and handed it him.
"Drink," she said. "The water has given thee life; take thy strength
again also."
"Drink thou first," said he.
So Sieglinde took the horn and sipped it, and gave it back to the
stranger. And he, putting his lips where hers had touched the horn,
drank deeply of it, and bowing his head in thanks gave it back to her.
As he did so, again the fire shot up and prospered on the hearth; each
saw the other more clearly than before, and the woman was fair and the
man also, and in each grey eyes were shot with blue, and the yellow
hair of each was of the same brightness. Long they looked at each
other undismayed, he, because he must soon depart, and this one long
look could hurt neither, unless a little heart-ache were a hurt; she,
because her dreams had become suddenly coloured with life, and because
she hated Hunding.
But there comes an end to all moments be they sweet or bitter, and
soon he got up. Tall was he as Hunding, but his form was slight as of
a youth but lately come to man's estate, but in the clean lines of arm
and leg there was strength and swiftness.
"Thou hast refreshed my faintness," said he. "Thou hast given me life
again. And for thanks what can I say? This only: may sorrow ever be a
stranger to thee. May happiness be ever about thy home. I am rested and
refreshed; I will go on my way."
Then her heart awoke, and told her that she could not let him go.
Already the fire of love was beginning to burn within her, and her
dreams every moment were flushed more deeply with life. And though her
voice was half strangled in her throat, she answered him lightly: "Why
such haste?" she said; "wait a little longer."
He paused on his foot and looked at her.
"That would be but poor thanks for thy kindness," said he; "for
wherever I go I bring sorrow with me, sorrow and ill-luck. If thou
wert my enemy I would stay; it is because thou hast been good to me
and gracious that I go, taking my ill-luck with me, that it should not
abide untowardly in thy house. So I delay not, but go," and he turned
quickly and went to the door.
Then when his hand was on the latch, and in the next moment he would
have gone forth into the night, and out of her sight for ever, her
heart again would not suffer her to remain dumb. Little of sorrow or
ill-luck could he bring to her while she abode still in the house of
Hunding, for all the sorrow in the world, or so it seemed to her, was
hers already, nor was there any ill-luck which he could bring which
should be comparable to that which was ever about her house and about
her bed, and sat at meat with her.
"There is no sorrow thou couldest bring me," said she, "for it is mine
already. Look on these walls; they are builded firm, and it is of hate
they are builded. Sorrow and hate and ill-luck were the masons, and
they have built well. Look! thou wilt find no cranny nor chink. O, I
have a well-established house!" and she laughed with sudden bitterness.
"So stay," she said, and her voice quivered like an aspen leaf.
By now the logs that Sieglinde had cast on the hearth against
Hunding's return were fully caught, and loud laughed the firelight on
the walls. In that brightness they saw each other more clearly yet,
and the long look that had passed between them was again renewed.
Other fires, too, were burning, for each now felt much pity for the
other--Sieglinde for the stranger in that he was lonely and the quarry
of ill-luck; the stranger for her in that when love should have been
blossoming in her home, the strong poisonous flowers of hate were there
instead. But as she spoke, the latch fell from his fingers, and he
slowly returned and sat down by the hearth.
"Yet I have warned thee," said he. "Woe is my name, and if thou fearest
not Woe, thou fearest not me. I will wait for Hunding to thank him for
the rest and refreshment I have found in his house."
Then though Sieglinde's heart rejoiced that she had stayed his going,
yet she was troubled. For though nothing could have been more right
than that he should wait for Hunding, her lawful lord, yet she knew
why she had bade him stay, for the woman in her called for man. And in
silence she lit the lamp and placed it on the table; and in troubled
silence she made all ready for Hunding's coming. Not long did she wait,
for in a short space she heard the stroke of his horse's hoofs on the
stones without; she heard him lead the beast to the stable and shut the
door; she heard his step again outside and the jar of the lifted latch.
Then she looked once more at the stranger and he at her, and with
that the door opened, and Hunding, black as the night outside, stood
there. Then seeing a stranger by the hearth he paused, with the door
still swung open, and looked with an unspoken question at his wife.
From without came in the warm breath of the spring night, and the
dwelling-place was filled with it, as the vats are filled with the
odours of the wine when the vintage time has come, and in the heart of
Sieglinde the flowers of hate burst into passionate blossom, and with
that growth was mingled another.