Eight years, or thereabouts, had come and gone, when messengers arrived
from Burgundy inviting Siegfried and Chriemhild to a great feast. They
accepted the invitation, and Sigmund determined to accompany them to
Worms.
Brunhild had said one day to her husband, “King Gunther, why does your
brother-in-law Siegfried never come to our court like the other
vassals? I should like to see both him and your sister Chriemhild. Pray
send, and command their presence at court.”
“I told you before,” answered Gunther, somewhat nettled, “that my
brother-in-law is as mighty a king as I. He rules over the Nibelungs
and the Netherlands.”
“How strange!” she replied. “You cannot deny that he called himself
your man when he was in Isenland.”
“Oh! he only said that to help me in my wooing,” said Gunther, feeling
uncomfortable.
“You only say that,” was her answer, “to make your sister seem to have
a higher rank. But however that may be, I should very much like to see
them both at our court.”
“Very well,” he answered kindly, “I will send messengers to invite them
to the Midsummer feast, and they will not refuse to come.”
He went away, and did as he had said. Brunhild remained alone, plunged
in thought.
“There he goes,” she muttered. “The man that conquered the once heroic
maiden, who thought herself strong enough to brave the battle like the
Valkyrs of old. And he, what is he but a weak reed, moved hither and
thither by every breath of wind that blows? How much greater Siegfried
is! He is a hero with the world at his feet. But then a vassal! To be
sure, none such could dare to raise his eyes to the queen of Isenland.
Had he done so, she must have scorned him, and would scorn him to this
very hour.”
Siegfried and his party came to Worms at the appointed time. There was
no end to the feasting, tilting, and minstrelsy. Old Sigmund renewed
his youth again, and delighted to talk of old days with the Lady Ute,
whom he had known as a child. The young queens were always together, at
church, or at the feast, or else in the gallery overlooking the
tilt-yard. The only amusement to which Chriemhild did not accompany her
sister-in-law was the chase.
One day when they were sitting together in the gallery watching the
feats of agility and skill shown by the warriors, she said in the joy
of her heart:
“Is not my Siegfried glorious among warriors, like a moon among the
pale stars of night? He is a royal hero.”
“He is well deserving of your praise,” replied Brunhild, “but still he
must yield the first place to my husband.”
“Of a truth,” answered Chriemhild, “my brother is a bold warrior, but
he does not equal my husband in feats of arms.”
“Why,” said Brunhild, “did not win he the prize at Isenstein, while
Siegfried remained with the ship?”
“Do you mean to accuse the Nibelung hero, the dragon-queller, of
cowardice?” cried the young wife indignantly.
“He cannot stand so high as the king of Burgundy,” answered Brunhild,
“for he is not his own man, but owes fealty to my husband.”
“You lie, proud woman!” exclaimed Chriemhild, her face flushing with
anger, “you lie most insolently. My brother would never have let me
marry a man who was not free. Siegfried owes no man allegiance, neither
for Nibelungland nor yet for Netherland. The first kingdom he conquered
with his own right hand, the other is his inheritance; and I, his
queen, may hold my head as high as you.”
“Try it, chatterer! I shall always walk into church before you.”
With these words Brunhild left the gallery. Chriemhild felt both hurt
and angry. It was the first grief that had ever befallen her, and she
could not get over it. She went to her rooms, put on her costliest
garments and the jewels that had come out of the Nibelung treasure;
then, followed by her ladies and serving-men, she walked to the
minster. Brunhild was already there with her train. She would have
passed the proud woman silently, but the latter exclaimed:
“Your husband is my husband’s man, so wait here, and let your queen go
first.”
“Better for you had you held your peace,” said Chriemhild. “A paramour
go before a king’s wife, indeed!”
“Are you mad?” asked Brunhild. “What do you mean?”
“I will tell you what I mean,” replied Chriemhild, “when I come out of
church;” and passing before her enemy, she went in to the house of God.
The proud queen stood still, weeping, at the entrance door. Shame and
anger struggled in her breast, and she could scarcely wait till the end
of the service. At length the door opened, and Chriemhild appeared.
“Now,” exclaimed Brunhild, “stop, and explain what you meant by your
insulting words, you wife of a bondsman.”
“Wife of a bondsman?” repeated Chriemhild, as though she had not heard
the other words. “Do you recognise the gold ring on my hand shaped like
a serpent?”
“It is mine,” said Brunhild. “Now I know who stole it from me.”
“Well,” continued Chriemhild, “maybe you also remember the silken
girdle I wear round my waist, with its gold buckles and precious
stones. My husband gained both the ring and the girdle that night, when
he, not Gunther, conquered you.”
Chriemhild went her way with the air of a hero on the day of his
greatest victory. The proud queen remained standing where her
sister-in-law had left her, her head bowed with shame. She sent for her
husband, and when he came, told him how she had been insulted. And
Gunther promised to ask Siegfried if he had any knowledge of what had
taken place. He received his brother-in-law in the royal hall, and in
the presence of many of his bravest warriors. He told him what had
chanced, and immediately the Nibelung hero declared, in all good truth,
that he had never spoken of dishonour and of the queen in the same
breath; adding that too much weight should not be laid on the words
that women spoke in anger. He then offered to clear himself by a solemn
oath. But Gunther interrupted him, saying he knew him of old, and that
his word was as good as his bond.
“Hearken, then, ye men of Burgundy,” said the hero; “you see that I am
pronounced innocent of causing the humiliations your queen has endured,
and indeed I have always regarded her as a modest woman, and a good
wife. And now, dear comrade Gunther, chide your wife as I shall chide
mine for what they have this day done, that we may never again be
brought to dispeace by their idle chatter.”
He then turned and left the hall; but many a Burgundian felt that their
queen had suffered a cruel wrong.
Next day Brunhild began to make preparations for her departure to
Isenland. The king and his brothers entreated her to stay; but she sat
silent and immovable as a stone figure.
“We cannot let you go,” cried the king. “We will at any cost expiate my
sister’s thoughtless speech. What price do you demand?”
She rose, looked round the circle of warriors, and said in a hoarse and
hollow voice:
“Blood!”
The Burgundians started, and stared at each other, none daring to
speak. She continued in the same tone:
“Not all the waters of the Rhine could wash the stain from my honour.
The heart’s blood of yonder man alone can do it.”
The uneasiness of the warriors increased; but Hagen said:
“Are the bold Burgundians grown weak with age? Have they become
children again? I will explain the matter. Our queen demands the
heart’s-blood of Siegfried. Ha! The words seem to terrify you!”
The Burgundians exchanged whispers about Siegfried’s strength, how it
were certain death to fight with him, and, moreover, that he was
innocent of all blame in the matter.
Then grim Hagen turned to Brunhild, and said, “Lady, it was against my
advice that Gunther went to woo you in Isenland; but, now that you are
our queen, your honour shall be safe in our hands. I will satisfy your
desire.”
“But,” exclaimed young Giselher, “it is not the way in Burgundy to
return evil for good. Siegfried has always been true to us, and I, at
least, will not be false to him.”
Hagen tried to persuade Volker, the minstrel, to help him in the work
of assassination, for Siegfried was not a man they could attack openly.
But Volker refused. Ortwin offered himself in his stead, saying that
the mere fact of Siegfried having given the ring and girdle to his wife
was an insult to the queen of Burgundy, and must therefore be revenged.
Gunther here broke in passionately, “Such a murder would cast dishonour
on all Burgundy, and it is my duty as the king to prevent it.”
“Lord of the Rhine,” cried Brunhild, rising from her seat, “I give you
three days to think of it. After that, I either go to Isenland, or have
my revenge.” With these words she left the room.
“No weapon can hurt him,” said the Margrave Gere, “for he has bathed in
dragon’s blood, and is only vulnerable in one place, on which a
lime-leaf fell when he was doing it.”
“If he guesses what we are after,” added Sindolt, “he and his thousand
Nibelungs will conquer the kingdom.”
“I will do it by cunning,” said grim Hagen.
The king could not make up his mind one way or the other. He would—and
would not. And when the warriors separated, nothing was settled. Three
days later, when Gunther saw that the queen’s mind was fully made up,
he consented with a sigh to let his uncle Hagen try his plan.
About this time heralds came from Lüdegast and Lüdeger to declare war
against Burgundy. Siegfried at once promised to help his
brothers-in-law to defend the country. The ladies were all busy
preparing the jerkins their husbands were to wear. One day when
Chriemhild was thus employed, Hagen entered her room. He bade her be of
good cheer, because the hero having bathed in dragon’s blood was
invulnerable.
“Good friend,” she answered sadly, “my Siegfried is so bold that he
often pushes into the midst of the enemy, and, in such a case, he might
easily be wounded in his only vulnerable point.”
Hagen begged her to embroider a little cross upon his jerkin to mark
the place, so that he might always cover it with his shield. She
promised to do so, and immediately worked a little cross with silver
thread upon the garment. Her anxiety was needless, for the next day
fresh messengers came to say that the kings had changed their minds
regarding war, and were now determined to be true to their old
alliance. Soon after this, Gunther made preparations for a great hunt
to be given in honour of the continued peace. On the morning on which
it was to be held, Chriemhild entreated her husband to remain at home.
She had had such terrible dreams the night before, that she feared for
his life. He laughed at her, and then kissed her, saying that a bad
dream would be a foolish reason for keeping away from the hunt.
“Besides that, be comforted, dear wife. What harm can happen to me? I
shall be amongst faithful friends and comrades all day long. I shall
take Balmung and a sharp spear with me, and I should like to see him
who would dare withstand me.”
He kissed her again, and hastened away. She ran to the window, and
watched him until he disappeared from sight. The morning passed very
pleasantly, and then the warriors sat down to their mid-day meal, which
was spread out on the grass. There was food in plenty, but the wine ran
short. Hagen explained that he had sent the wine on to another place,
thinking it was there they should have dined; but he told his friends
of a cool spring under a lime-tree not far off, and offered to run a
race there with Siegfried. The latter laughingly accepted the
challenge, adding that he would carry his sword and hunting-tackle,
while Hagen went empty-handed, that the race might be more equal. The
two warriors ran across the meadow ground towards the linden, and, as
they ran, the field flowers tried to stop bold Siegfried, the branches
of the trees beckoned him to go back, and the birds in the linden sang
sadly as though they would say, “Turn back, noble hero, the traitor is
behind you.” But Siegfried did not understand the language of the
flowers, trees, and birds. He trusted his friend as himself.
“Here we are at last,” he cried to the panting Hagen. “Here is the
clear spring; see how the water sparkles. Let us rest under the cool
shade of the linden, until the king comes up, for he must have the
first draught.”
He laid aside his sword and other weapons, and threw himself on the
flowery grass.
“How dull you look,” he continued to Hagen, “and yet it is such a
bright and beautiful day, and we have had such good sport this morning.
Ah, here are the others. Come, Gunther, we are waiting for you. You
must have the first draught.”
Gunther stooped and drank of the fresh, clear water of the spring, then
Siegfried followed him, saying with a laugh:
“I intend to have a real good drink. But do not fear, noble friends, I
shall leave you plenty. This spring is like mankind: one part goes down
into the earth, and another comes up into the light of day, but it
never ends.”
“Very true,” said Hagen; “what matters one life more or less?”
The Nibelung hero bent over the well and drank thirstily, and, as he
did so, Hagen caught up his spear and plunged it into his back, in the
exact spot where Chriemhild had embroidered the silver cross on his
jerkin. He did it with such force, that the point of the weapon went
through his back and came out at his chest. The wounded man sprang to
his feet, and, not finding his sword where he had put it, for it had
been removed by one of the conspirators, seized his shield and struck
the murderer to the ground. More he could not do. He sank back
helplessly amongst the flowers, which were dyed red with his blood. The
silver stream was also reddened, and all the sky was crimson with the
light of the setting sun. It seemed as if nature were blushing for the
evil deed that had just been done.
Once more the hero feebly raised his beautiful head, and said, looking
round upon the Burgundians:
“Ye murderous hounds, what harm did I ever do you? Had I known of your
treachery, ye had all lain dead at my feet. A devil from hell must have
tempted you to do this foul deed. None of you ventured to meet me in
open battle, and so you fixed upon Hagen to do the cowardly deed. Your
names will be known until the latest times as those of cowardly
traitors. And now, King Gunther, dishonoured as you are through this
ill-deed, and weak of will, listen to the words of a dying man. Protect
my wife, she is your own sister, protect my poor wife from Hagen.”
These were the last words of the royal hero.
The warriors stood silently around him, their hearts filled with sorrow
and repentance. Gunther at length said:
“We will tell the people, who all loved the dead man, that he was
murdered by robbers. Chriemhild will never then hold us to blame.”
“Nay,” said Hagen, “that may not be. I will not deny what my own
cunning and my own hand have done. Our queen has now the expiation that
she demanded, and your honour required. Burgundy is safe from all
enemies, for no man was ever Siegfried’s equal, or ever will be. What
do I care for the complaints of a people or for the tears of a woman?
Let us make a bier of branches, that the dead warrior may be borne to
Worms thereon. Ha! here is Balmung, his good sword; to-day it shall do
its old master a last service, and its new master a first.”
When the bier was made, the hunting party set out for Worms in very
different fashion from that in which they had started in the morning.
They did not arrive until late at night. It almost seemed as though the
dead hero inspired both warriors and serving-men with terror. None of
them would carry him up the staircase. Hagen called them cowardly
loons, and raising the body on his shoulders, carried it up, and laid
it outside Chriemhild’s door. Next morning early the queen got up, and
made ready to go to the sanctuary. She called a chamberlain, and he,
seeing a dead man, whom he did not recognise in the half-light, lying
in the passage, told his mistress. She shrieked aloud:
“It is Siegfried! Hagen has murdered him at Brunhild’s command!”
The servants brought lights, and they saw that she had spoken truth.
She threw herself on her husband’s body, and with her tears washed his
face clear of the blood stains that marred it. There he lay before her,
pale, cold, and motionless; never, never again should she hear his
voice;—never again. The word rhymed in her ears, and seemed to madden
her. She would willingly have died with him, and have gone down to the
grave; or, as her forefathers believed, have rejoined him in Freya’s
halls.
Old Sigmund, on hearing the news, uttered no word, but his heart seemed
broken. He kissed his son’s wounds, as though he hoped thereby to
recall him to life. Suddenly he started to his feet, and the old spirit
awoke in his heart.
“Murder! Vengeance!” he cried. “Up, Nibelungs, up, and avenge your
hero.”
He hastened into the court, and the Nibelungs, hearing his words,
crowded round him in full armour. The old man received a sword and coat
of mail from them, but his trembling hands were too weak to hold them,
and next moment he had sank unconscious on the ground. The Burgundians
were awaiting the assault with arms in their hands, and grim Hagen was
bringing up new forces to help those already there.
The Nibelungs retired, gnashing their teeth.
On the third day after this, the bier was taken to the sanctuary to be
blessed by the priest. The populace crowded into the church, that they
might give a last look at the dead hero, who had done so much for
Burgundy. Chriemhild stood by the uncovered coffin, which was adorned
with gold and precious stones. Her eyes were tearless, but all could
read her sorrow in her face and bearing. A veiled woman passed close by
amongst the crowd. Chriemhild alone recognised her.
“Go, murderess,” she cried, “do not approach him, lest the very dead
should bear witness against you.”
The Unknown vanished in the crowd.
The Burgundian warriors now came to view the corpse, as custom
demanded. When Hagen came up, the wounds of the dead man opened, and
his blood flowed forth in a warm stream, as at the hour of the murder.
“Do not stand there, assassin,” said Chriemhild; “do you not see how
the dead bears witness against you?”
The bold warrior remained where he was.
“I do not deny what my hand has done. I only acted as I was bound to
act by my fealty to my liege lord and his queen.”
If Chriemhild had had a sword in her hand, and had been possessed of a
man’s strength, Hagen had scarcely quitted the sanctuary alive.
Many gifts were made to the poor in honour of the dead hero, who was
buried on the fourth day. The grave-chamber was richly decorated, and
over it rose a high mound. Chriemhild followed the coffin to its quiet
resting-place. There the lid was opened once more at her command. She
kissed and wept over the pale face of her husband. Her women at length
had to bear her away, for she would have remained there for ever. Hagen
was standing without, grim and unmoved as ever, and said with his usual
fatalism, “What has happened, must needs have happened. The will of the
Norns must be done.” The queen did not hear him. She did not even see
how Gunther, Gernot, and many of the other warriors tried to hide their
grief and repentance. Her thoughts were all with the dead.
Sigmund and the Nibelungs prepared to return home. They wanted to take
Chriemhild with them, to guard her from the false Burgundians, but she
would not leave her husband’s grave, and only begged the old king and
the Margrave Eckewart to take care of her little son, and bring him up
to be like his father. For she said he was an orphan, fatherless, and
perhaps motherless. She had only one wish, which she whispered in the
old man’s ear—the wish for vengeance. Sigmund took leave of none but
the Lady Ute, who mourned for Siegfried as if he had been a son of her
own, and of Giselher, the youngest of the brothers. Then he set out for
the Netherlands.
Time passed on, and it almost seemed as though Chriemhild had grown
content, and had become reconciled to her brother. Grim Hagen alone
seemed to fill her with horror, and Brunhild she also avoided. She, one
day, told her brother that she wished the Nibelung treasure to be
brought up to Worms, as it was her private property. Gunther rejoiced
at this proof of her renewed confidence in him, and at once consented
to send for it. Alberich delivered the treasure to the messengers
without hesitation, and at length it arrived at Worms. The queen made
generous gifts to the people, and whenever she found a brave warrior
who possessed but few worldly goods, she would provide him with all
that was necessary for his calling, and with daily pay besides. So that
she gradually became complete mistress of a small army, which grew
daily larger, and more powerful.
Hagen warned the kings of this; he told them that the Lady Chriemhild
meditated vengeance. He did not care for his own life, he said, but the
fair land of Burgundy must not fall into her hands. The only way that
he could see of preventing this consummation would be for the kings to
take the Nibelung treasure under their own care. The brothers would not
consent. Gernot said that enough harm had been done to their sister
already without heaping small indignities on her. Once, when his liege
lords were absent, Hagen, who had always considered that prevention was
better than cure, called his men together, and fell upon the warders
who had charge of the Nibelung treasure. He carried off all that
remained of it, and sank it in the deep waters of the Rhine. It was of
little use that the kings heard of his ill-deed on their return; it was
of little use that Chriemhild made indignant complaint: the deed was
done, and could not be undone.
“If you were not our uncle,” said Gunther and Gernot, “this should have
cost you your life.”
A short time afterwards, Hagen showed his nephews the place in the
Rhine where he had hidden the treasure, and made them swear that none
of them would betray its hiding-place as long as one of them was alive.
Chriemhild was sad and sorrowful as before; she always sat with her
mother, and embroidered tapestry in which she depicted the scene of
Baldur’s death, and showed how he was cruelly slain by his brother
Höder, and how Nanna died of a broken heart, and shared her husband’s
bier. But in Baldur every one recognised the features of her hero, and
in Nanna her own; while Höder had the features, garments, and murderous
weapon of grim Hagen. She often held the needle suspended in her
fingers, and sat watching the picture thoughtfully. When the Lady Ute
asked her, on such occasions, “What are you thinking of, my child?” she
would answer, “I was thinking of Hagen.”
[Illustration: HAGEN THROWS THE PRIEST OVERBOARD.]
_THE NIBELUNGS’ WOE._
I.
KING ETZEL’S WOOING.
Some welcome guests arrived at Worms. Margrave Rüdiger of Bechelaren,
surnamed “the Good,” came with some of his warriors to the Burgundian
court. Gunther, Gernot, and Hagen were old acquaintances of his, and he
had often held young Giselher on his knees as a child. Now that he came
to the house of mourning, his gentle, noble spirit had such an effect
on Chriemhild that she would sometimes accompany her mother to the
hall, and listen to the Margrave with a gentle smile, such as had not
been seen on her face since her hero’s death. But if Brunhild or Hagen
entered, she would go away at once. Days and weeks passed on, and at
last Gunther said to his guest that he fancied the Margrave had not
come merely for the pleasure of renewing an old acquaintance, but had
something on his mind. Then Rüdiger answered:
“Well, King Gunther, I will tell you what brings me here. You know that
good Queen Helche, the faithful helpmeet of my liege lord King Etzel,
died some years ago, and that her sons were slain in battle by Wittich.
The king of the Huns has long sat lonely in the wide halls of
Etzelburg, but he has now made up his mind to marry again. He consulted
me on the subject, and I advised him to try and win the hand of the
noble Lady Chriemhild, your sister and the widow of heroic Siegfried.
If you will give your consent to the match, I am empowered to say that
she shall be queen of the Huns.”
“She is no longer under my charge,” was the answer; “she is queen of
the Nibelungs, and of the Netherlands, and I fear that she will not be
willing to marry again.”
“I will take her the good news,” said Giselher, “and mother Ute will
advise her to do as we wish.”
The young warrior immediately rose, and went to the women’s apartment.
He found his sister busied as usual with her embroidery. He told her
that it was time she should give up grieving so much for her dead
husband, and reminded her that she was still young, and might yet be
happy. Then he told her what Rüdiger had related of Etzel’s court, its
greatness and its glory, and finally told her of Etzel’s wooing. But
Chriemhild answered with solemn firmness, that she would not leave the
grave-mound in which all she loved was buried.
Then mother Ute spoke. “If you will be Etzel’s queen, my child, you
will be the most powerful of women.”
“Most powerful of women,” repeated the daughter thoughtfully. “Look,
Giselher,” she went on, pointing to her embroidery, “you know whom that
hero is intended to represent?”
He shook his head, and she added, “It is Wali, the Avenger, of whom our
fathers said that he revenged Baldur, and sent dark Höder to his own
place.”
“These are old wives’ stories that are forgotten now,” answered
Giselher. “Let us speak of him in whose name good Rüdiger is come to
woo you.”
“Yes—but what if it were to be fulfilled?” she said, “perhaps—Ask the
Margrave to come to me, that I may hear his wooing myself.”
Giselher left the room, and the Lady Ute went out also, leaving
Chriemhild alone, as she requested.
“Siegfried,” said the young queen, “it is for your sake that I leave
your resting-place, from whence you have so often come to me, in waking
and in sleep, and pointed to your wounds—those gaping, bleeding
wounds, that will never close until it is granted me to send grim Höder
down to dark Hella.”
Rüdiger appeared, and in courteous fashion wooed the queen in his
master’s name; but not till he had promised, in the name of the god
Irmin, that she should have men to fight her battles when she needed
them, did she consent to go to the land of the wild Huns, and to become
Etzel’s wife.
The Burgundians all rejoiced when Rüdiger told them the good news,—the
three royal brothers especially, for now, they thought, their sister
would again be happy. But Hagen came to them, and said,—
“What are you thinking of, that you thus call the lightning down on our
heads? Do not give your sister to the king of the Huns. Between the
widow of Siegfried and us, such friendship alone can exist as that
between fire and water. Either must the one be quenched, or the other
fly off in steam. It is a childish action to supply one’s enemy with a
sword to cut off one’s head.”
But the brothers refused to listen to his warnings. Preparations now
went on apace for the journey to Etzelburg. Ambassadors were sent to
the Nibelungs and to the Netherlands to tell them of the queen’s
contemplated marriage. They returned with a numerous company of
warriors and servants. At length all was ready, the kings went with
their sister as far as the Danube, where they took leave of her, and
Margrave Rüdiger took their place as leader of the travelling party. At
the borders of the land, King Etzel with a large following awaited the
queen’s arrival. His face lighted up with pleasure when he saw the
pale, beautiful countenance of the Lady Chriemhild. He told her that
she should have full power over his treasures and his lands,—that, in
short, she should be his queen. She answered that she would be a
faithful and obedient wife, but that her love was buried with
Siegfried. The king paid no attention to the last words. He made sure
of winning her love through kindness and affection. And so they went on
together to Etzelburg. The marriage festivities lasted a fortnight, and
were celebrated in the usual way.
Chriemhild took little part in the rejoicings. She did all that she had
to do, thinking of Siegfried the while. Now, amongst the warriors
present, there was one who was famed for his unusual strength, bold
Dietrich of Bern. His thoughts were far away in the beautiful land of
the Amelungs, which his uncle Ermenrich had taken from him by guile and
force. He longed to return to his own people, and win the victory for
them; but Etzel would not give him the necessary help. Sometimes, as he
sat grave and sad in the great hall, while other men were laughing and
talking, the queen would go to him, and tell him of Hagen’s foul deed.
He understood that she wished to woo him to vengeance, but he was
silent, for he neither could nor would raise his sword against the
Burgundian warriors who had been his faithful comrades in the olden
time.
Months and years passed on; a little boy was born to the royal pair. He
was the image of his mother, and received the name of Ortlieb. The king
and country rejoiced equally in the birth of an heir to the throne. For
his son’s sake, Etzel loved his wife more than he had ever done before,
and would have given her anything she chose to ask; but she cared for
nothing; she remained grave, quiet, thoughtful about her duties, but
sparing of her words. Even her little boy, carefully as she tended him,
did not bring her happiness. She was never seen to smile even on him.
The wound that her first husband’s death had dealt her would not heal.
The spirit of vengeance, rising out of the abyss, never ceased to
whisper in her ears, “Blood for blood, murder for murder,” and her ears
were open to its cry.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]