THE STORY OF THE STRANGER
For a moment there was silence. Then said Sieglinde: "I found him here
by the hearth, Hunding; he was faint, his foes pursued him."
Hunding looked darkly at her, and more darkly yet at the stranger. He
on Hunding's entrance had turned himself, and risen from his seat, as
if to greet his host; but even as his greeting was on his lips he had
paused, for there was something in that black look which made him feel
some echo of Sieglinde's hate.
"It is ever well to help the helpless," said Hunding evilly. "Thou
gavest him refreshment?"
"Even so," said she. "He was my guest--your guest; faint by the hearth
I found him. He waited for your coming." Not a smile of welcome did
Hunding give, for it was not his way to smile; and already in his
black heart hatred blackened towards his guest, and suspicion, ere yet
it came, cast its shadow. And as his host did not greet him, neither
did the stranger greet his host. Yet he could not bear that the woman
should be blamed for what he had done. His was the blame.
"I was shelterless," said he, looking at Hunding. "She sheltered me. I
was faint: she revived me. Is there blame in that?"
"Blame? Who talks of blame?" said Hunding more blackly yet. "My hearth
is holy: not otherwise has any guest of mine found it, and guest of
mine art thou. Inviolable are these laws."
And without more words he turned to Sieglinde, who, as her custom was,
took his weapons of hunting and hung them up on the ash-tree beneath
the gleaming sword-hilt Hunding hated the sword-hilt, for he had not
been able to move it, and he knew that in this world there was but one
who could. On that day also he knew trouble would come to his house.
But he told Sieglinde to bring supper for him and his guest, and as she
moved about her work, he stood beneath the ash-stem and looked from
her to the stranger and back again. Each was cast in noble mould, and
they were strangely like the one to the other, for the head of each was
bright with sunny hair, and in the grey eye of each was seated some
secret sorrow. Tall was his wife, and tall the stranger, and the skin
of each was fair as the skin of a child, and as smooth. For himself he
felt like a base-born man in the presence of the gently bred; and as he
looked he hated each, and the shadow of his suspicion grew darker. Then
he turned to the stranger, and speaking like a man who conceals nought--
"Thy way has been long," he said, "and thou hast no horse. Where hast
thou come, and whither goest thou? What journey has thus travel-stained
thee?"
Then said the stranger: "The storm and the foe have driven me far, and
by what way I know not. And where I have come I know not, for my way
was long, and the heavens and earth were blinded with tempest. Tell me
then where I have come."
And as Hunding looked on him again, the likeness of the stranger to
his wife smote on him like a blow; and again he looked from one to the
other, as Sieglinde brought in venison and the fresh-baked bread, and
put them ready on the table. But he answered him with seeming frankness.
"It is to Hunding's house thou hast come," he said, "and under the roof
of Hunding thou hast rested. Not here is the home of my kindred, but
far away to northward; and they of my blood are mighty and many. Be
seated then, guest of mine, and in return tell me thy name."
So the stranger seated himself, and when he was seated Hunding sat
down also, and Sieglinde, who had finished the serving, sat by her
husband opposite to their guest, and her eyes dwelt ever on him very
steadfastly, and his on her, and neither took heed of Hunding, who
watched them both. Eagerly she waited for him to tell them his name,
expecting she knew not what; but as her eyes looked on him, she forgot
even that Hunding had asked it, for she forgot all else except that
in front of her and at her husband's table was seated the fair-haired
stranger. As for him, his eyes were fixed in thought, as if he
meditated on his answer. Yet since it was a strange thing that a guest
should not tell his name to his host, again Hunding questioned him.
"Surely I would not press aught unwelcome on my guest," said he,
"if he wills not to tell me. But see how my wife also waits for your
answer. She too would fain know the name of her guest and mine;" and
again he looked at Sieglinde.
But she took not her eyes off the stranger, for the sight of him fed
her heart, making her content. And though she cared not to know his
name, she could not but do her husband's bidding, and she too asked him
his name, if so be he would be willing to tell it.
Then again for a long moment was the stranger still silent, but at the
last he raised his eyes and looked at her, and some secret sympathy
passed like a wave between them; and he spoke to her only.
"My name is Wehwalt, the man of Woe," said he, "for mine is the
portion of sorrow, and my father was called 'The Wolf.' He begat twins,
a sister and myself; but while I was yet so young that I scarce knew
her name or the name of my mother, the Wolf, my father, took me into
the forest, there to rear me up to be strong and warlike, even as
himself. Strong too and warlike were his foes, and there were many of
them. Then, after years, one day he took me home, but no home found we
there, but only the burnt ashes of what had been. There lay my mother,
fallen and dead in defence of the hearth, but of my sister no trace was
left. Such was my home-coming."
He paused, but took not his eyes from Sieglinde's face, and his voice
rose in sudden fire as he went on with his tale.
"The treacherous Niedings had done this," he cried, "and deadly was
their work. Bitter and relentless they pursued us, and for years my
father and I lived a hunted life in the forest, beset with our foes.
Yet ever his courage and his cunning avoided the snares they set for
us, and, by the side of the Wolf, the Whelp grew up through boyhood to
early manhood."
Thereat he paused again, and turned to Hunding.
"That Wolfs whelp tells you the tale," said he.
Now at the words of the stranger the suspicion that had hung over
Hunding's heart like a poised hawk grew suddenly nearer, as if it
stooped to its prey, for even in the manner in which the stranger told
them his sister had been lost to him, in that manner was his own wife
won. Well he remembered how the mother fought for the daughter, but at
the end she was slain, and the house burnt, and the girl carried off by
force; and again the strange likeness of the two struck on his heart.
As for his wife Sieglinde, her face was a mask, and she only gazed at
the stranger with wide, grey eyes, and what she thought no man knew,
and least of all her husband. Also he had heard stories of the Wolf and
the Whelp, as the forest folk called them, and now the Whelp told the
tale himself. But since he must needs know more yet, he curbed himself.
"Wehwalt," said he; "Wehwalt, the Wolfs whelp, it is a strange story
that thou tellest us. Of thy name in stories of strife and war I have
heard men tell. Yet saw I never the Wolf thy father nor his son till
to-day."
He would have said more, but Sieglinde, her eyes all aflame,
interrupted him. "Tell us the rest," she cried, and her voice strangled
in her throat, for if Hunding remembered how his wife was carried off
from the burnt home, should not she remember? "Tell us where thy father
is to-day? Where is his home? Is it near--is it near?" she cried.
Then the stranger shook his head.
"Thou shalt hear," he said, "and I will tell thee all. For after the
burning of the house, and the murder of my mother, and the seizing
of my sister, ever more fiercely did the accursed Niedings press on
us, for the blood, maybe, had whetted them. But the Wolf was ever
stronger and more cunning than the men, and day after day he drove them
through the forest, and in his paths the dead lay thick. Even as a ship
scatters the spray in clouds before its bows, even so they fell off
spent from his advance, and he passed on over them, I with him, heeding
them as little, as they writhed in their death agonies, as the ship
heeds the billows it ploughs through. Thus fared we till the day came
when my father was not. A wolf-skin I found in the forest, but of him
no trace. And whether he is dead I know not, or whether," and his eye
brightened "whether he was not of mortal birth, and his work there was
finished, and he went whither he would."
For a moment he paused, and on one side the eager grey eyes of the
woman met his, and by her sat her husband, whose black eyes smouldered
with hate that was scarce concealed. But in the light of the grey eyes
he forgot the black.
"Wanting him," he said, "I left the forest and lived among men and
women of civilized race. Yet wherever I went, whether I sought for
friend only, or sought for wife, I prospered not, and he who should
have been friend turned from me, and she whom I sought for wife thought
scorn of me, for ill-luck was ever about my path. Did I think a thing
right? That was enough: to all others the deed seemed foul. Did I think
a deed false? To all others it appeared fair. And thus I was at war
with the whole world. About my path watched hate, and anger against me
grew like weeds in the bush. Did I seek for joy? Bitterness was mine,
and woe and sorrow. Thus came I to call myself Wehwalt, for woe was my
fate. So I named myself to fit my fate."
Then Hunding wiped his mouth, for he had made an end of eating, and
laughed bitterly.
"Truly then thou hast named thyself," said he, "if none to whom thou
goest as a guest is glad at thy coming, and slow to love thee, and
grieves not when thou goest And indeed such seems to be thy case."
At that Sieglinde turned and faced her husband, as she had never faced
him before.
"Ah!" she cried, "there speaks the coward, Hunding. For who but a
coward would insult a man who is alone, and who is weaponless?"
Then she turned to the stranger again.
"Guest of mine and of Hunding's," she said, "thy tale is but half told.
How came it that thou art without thine arms? Where is thy shield and
thy sword and thy spear, that thou goest at the mercy of every coward?"
At that Hunding laughed, for he was minded to be amused. But she
heeded not, and but listened for the stranger's words.
"It was thus that I lost my shield and spear and sword," said he;
"for I went to help and to rescue, if so be I could, a maid whom her
kin wished to marry to a man she loved not. To me she came for help,
and help I gave her, for I bethought me of how the Wolf would descend
like a hill-top storm on to his foes, and I, his whelp, could do no
other way. So hewed I and hacked among the cruel kin, for rage was in
my heart, since it was by such unhallowed wooing that I had lost my
sister, and I cleared the homestead of her evil clan. Two brothers
had she, who would make the marriage, and for them I made a funeral
instead of a marriage for their sister. But at that--ill-luck still
following me--the tenderness of the maid awoke, and she wailed their
loss, and her grief conquered her erstwhile cry for help. Thus for me
who had delivered her she had only curses. Then, as I waited there,
from every side swarmed out the kith and the kin of those whom I had
done to death, so that the forest was thick with them. Yet the maid
still bewailed her brothers, and cursed me for their death, and cursed
herself for that she had bidden me to aid her, and so compass it. With
my sword I still defended her, for her kin were thirsty for her blood,
and with my spear I sent more to their account, till at the end my
sword was shattered, and my spear sundered. Then with these eyes I saw
them murder the maiden as she still bewailed her brethren; and since
I could do no more, I fled from before their faces, while she, dead,
crowned the heaps of dead. So fled I, and came hither."
Then again he paused, and looked at Sieglinde with a pitiful entreaty.
"Thus is it with me," he said, "and thus it has always been with me. Am
I not right then to name myself by a name of woe? Has peace or joy any
lot with me?"
And the stranger got up, for he suddenly could bear her gaze no
longer, and walked to the hearth. And she, when the magic of his gaze
was withdrawn, turned pale suddenly, moved more deeply than she knew
had been possible. Only Hunding still eyed him with growing hate and
certainty. Already he knew enough, and his vengeance, so he swore
to himself, should soon be complete. And he rose also and faced the
stranger.
"Truly ill-luck has guided thee here," he said; "and ill-luck planted
thy feet when they came to the house of Hunding. For have I not often
heard of the race to which thou belongest? And thou spakest truly when
thou saidst that thy coming gave no joy to any host, for thou art of
a wild, unhallowed breed, whose right is wrong in the eyes of all the
world of men, whose true is false, whose false is true. All day have I
been nearer to thee than thou knewest of, and the adventure thou hast
told us is not yet complete."
With that he drew nearer to the stranger.
"It is now my turn to tell my guest of myself," he said, "and let
him know where my feet have borne me. It was kin of mine whom thou
hast slaughtered in impotent defence of a maid of my race; my kin are
the brothers you killed, and all day I have been on the track of him
who killed them. But all day have I been too late, though fast on the
trail. Yet when I return home, whom find I at my hearth? Him, the
murderer of my kin. Thus there is blood already between us, and ever
shall be."
At his words his wife Sieglinde rose with terror and pity in her
face, and drew near to the two men. But Hunding heeded her not.
"To-night," he said, "thou art guest at mine; that must needs be
so. But at dawn to-morrow, Wolfs whelp, I am thy host no more, and
thou shalt answer for the blood of my kindred which thou hast shed.
Hast thou no arms? So much the worse, for thou wouldest be safer for a
sword, and at sunrise we meet. To-night we are host and guest, but a
dawn to-morrow be ready to meet me as the avenger of my kindred."
[Illustration: "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.