CHAPTER I

[Transcriber's Note: Anglicized variants of German character names

have been retained as they are in the original (e.g., Rhinegold for

Rheingold, Logi for Loge, Friea for Freia). Obvious printer errors have

been corrected without note. Some full-page illustrations have been

moved to the nearest paragraph break for better readability.]

[Illustration:

[Page 58

WOTAN AND BRÜNNHILDE]

THE

STORY OF THE RHINEGOLD

(_DER RING DES NIBELUNGEN_)

Told for Young People

BY

ANNA ALICE CHAPIN

ILLUSTRATED

[Illustration]

NEW YORK AND LONDON

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS

1900

Copyright, 1897, by HARPER & BROTHERS.

_All rights reserved._

TO

THE MASTER’S DAUGHTER

EVA WAGNER

WITH HEARTFELT GRATITUDE

FOR HER KINDNESS AND ENCOURAGEMENT

THIS BOOK

Is Dedicated

PREFACE

_The Story of the Rhinegold_ contains the four operas of Richard

Wagner’s “Nibelungen Ring,” arranged for young people. The “Nibelungen

Ring,” or “Nibelungen Cycle,” is built upon a colossal foundation:

a number of the great Teutonic myths, welded together with the most

masterly skill and consistency. It is evident that Wagner, like

William Morris and other writers, has taken from the fragmentary

mythological tales such material as would serve his purpose, adapting

such incidents as he chose and as he considered appropriate to his

work. But there are so many different versions of these old stories

that it is very difficult to trace Wagner’s plot to its original

birthplace. The various tales contained in the ancient sagas are so

seemingly contradictory that anything connectedly authoritative appears

impossible to trace. The one thing which seems to remain the same

in almost all versions of the stories, ancient and modern, is the

background of mythology, that great, gloomy cycle of gods, with the

ever-recurring note of Fate which seems to have impressed all searchers

in myths alike, and which inspired Wagner when he formed his mystical,

solemn Fate motif.

Odin, Wuotan, Wodin, or Wotan, according to the different names given

him in the old legends, is the central figure in the framework. If I

read the story aright, the Norns, or more properly Nornir, are next in

importance. They and their mother, the Vala, are the medium through

which the relentless something behind the gods made itself felt in the

world. The three sisters are named respectively _Urðr_, _Verðandi_,

and _Skuld_—freely translated Past, Present, and Future; or, as they

were once styled, as correctly perhaps, Was, Is, and Shall Be. It is a

question whether Erda and Urðr, the oldest Norn, might not originally

have been identical. Dr. Hueffer speaks of Erda as the “Mother of Gods

and Men,” but though “the Vala” is often found in mythology, the name

Erda is rarely mentioned, whereas the titles for the three Norns seem

to be unquestionably correct. The term _Vala_ is usually translated as

Witch, or Witch-wife, but, though a Vala was indeed a sorceress, she

was a prophetess as well.

A step lower than the gods, yet gifted with supernatural power and far

removed from the characteristics of human beings, were the dwarfs and

the giants. The giants, we are told, were creatures belonging properly

to the Age of Stone, which explains the fact that there were left but

two representatives of the race at the time of the Golden Age. The

dwarfs come under the head of elves. They were gifted with the utmost

cleverness and skill. The giants were stupid and clumsy, and, save for

their superhuman strength and size, entirely inferior to the small, sly

dwarfs.

The world was strangely peopled in those days; many of the heroes were

demi-gods, that is, descended from some god or goddess, and witches,

dwarfs, and sorcerers mingled with human beings.

Many mortals, also, had magic power then. Otter, the son of Rodmar,

changed himself into the animal for which he was named, and while

in the shape of the otter he was caught and killed by three of the

gods who were wandering over the earth in disguise. Rodmar demanded

weregild,[A] and Loki, with a net, caught Andvari, a rich and malignant

dwarf, and commanded him to pay a ransom of gold and gems, enough to

cover the skin of the otter; for such was the weregild demanded by

Rodmar. Andvari, of necessity, gave the gold for his own release, even

adding a wonderful wealth-breeding Ring to cover up a single hair

in the skin which the rest of the treasures had left unconcealed.

The dwarf cursed the Ring, and the curse attended it through all its

manifold ways of magic, to the end of the story.

[Footnote A: _Weregild_ is almost untranslatable. It may mean payment,

tax, forfeit, or ransom.]

Rodmar’s remaining sons, Fafnir and Regin, killed their father and

fought for the treasure. Fafnir obtained it, and, turning himself into

a monster-worm, went to Glistenheath (sometimes called Glittering

Hearth) to guard his wealth. Regin called upon Sigurd, a young hero,

to aid him, and, being a master-smith, forged for him a sharp sword

named Gram. Some versions give the forging of the sword to Sigurd,

but there are many sides to the story. The sword was sometimes called

Gram, and oftener Baldung, until Wagner gave it the more expressive

name of Nothung, or Needful. Prompted by Regin, Sigurd slew the Dragon

at Glistenheath, and, after tasting the blood by accident, was able to

understand the language of birds, and was told by two of Odin’s ravens

that Regin was treacherous. After slaying Regin, Sigurd rode away

with two bundles of the treasures slung across his horse’s back. He

found and awakened Brynhildr, a beautiful woman asleep in a house on a

hill. (She is known in the different tales in which she has figured as

Brynhildr, Brunhild, Brunehault, and Brünnhilde.) The next part of the

tale is most clearly set forth in the “Nibelungenlied,” an epic poem

in Middle High German dialect, containing a story—or, more correctly,

a series of stories—which originally belonged to the entire Teutonic

people. These have been found in multitudinous poems and sagas, from

those written by the ancient Norsemen, and most primitive in form,

to the modern books, essays, and poems of writers who have been

impressed with the interesting and picturesque aspects of the strange,

complicated old story. The “Nibelungenlied” itself deals rather with

the period of Christianity—with the knights and ladies of the time of

chivalry—than with the primeval gods and heroes of the Golden Age.

The substance of its contents may be found in the “Edda” and in the

“Thidrekssaga” (thirteenth century), and the original manuscripts of

the “Nibelungenlied” itself date from the thirteenth to the sixteenth

century.

The story contained in this poem is, briefly told, as follows:

Siegfried, son of Siegmund and Sieglind, woos Kreimhild, the sister of

King Gunther, of Burgundy, promising, in return for her hand, to aid

Gunther in winning Brunhild, Queen of Issland (Iceland). Siegfried,

with the help of his cloud-cloak, conquers Brunhild for Gunther—first

in three athletic games, which she makes a test for all suitors; and

later when, after the marriage, she proves stormy and untamed. He

takes her Ring and girdle, and gives them to his wife, Kreimhild. They

possess magic properties, and Brunhild, when deprived of them, loses

her great power and becomes like any ordinary woman. She sees her Ring

on Kreimhild’s hand one day, and, realizing that it is Siegfried,

and not her husband Gunther, who has conquered her great strength

and stolen her magic circlets, she tells her wrongs to Hagan, who

promises revenge. Hagan is the Knight of Trony, and he and his brother

Dankwort are Gunther’s vassals. Hagan entices Kreimhild to reveal to

him the secret of her husband’s safety in battle, and she tells him

that Siegfried once slew a dragon and bathed in the blood, which made

him invulnerable, save in one place, between his shoulders, where a

leaf fell, protecting the skin from the blood. Kreimhild is entirely

deceived by Hagan, and, not suspecting his treachery, she sews a circle

of silk upon her husband’s vesture over the vulnerable spot, that Hagan

may better know how to protect the hero’s one weakness when they are in

battle. It is there, where the circle of silk is sewn, that Hagan stabs

him.

There is much more in the “Nibelungenlied,” and a character famous in

poesy and sagas is introduced later in the poem—Atli, or Attila, King

of the Huns; but he has nothing to do with our story, though some one

has drawn a resemblance between his character and that of Hunding.

The “Nibelungenlied,” after Siegfried’s death, contains very little

connected in any way with Wagner’s four operas.

There are other versions of this tale, as there are of all ancient

stories. There are many tales of the killing of the Dragon and the

awakening of Brunhild, and the personality and history of the latter

have passed under diverse alterations in color and development. One

story says that Brynhildr, the Valkyrie, was made to slumber by her

father Odin, who pricked her in the temple with a sleep-thorn. Many

writers tell of a fire-circle which surrounded the sleeper and guarded

her slumbers. She is known as a great queen, a woman gifted with magic

powers, and a disobedient Walküre in different tales; and her character

changes as constantly as her history in the various legends where we

read of her. Sigurd, Siegfried, and Sinfiotli are, in many respects, so

similar that they might safely be termed identical, though sometimes,

as in William Morris’s “Sigurd, the Volsung,” they appear as distinct

characters.

Out of this confused and complicated sea of myths, legends, and old

Norse stories Wagner has drawn the material for his wonderful cycle.

His gods and goddesses are taken, with very few changes, directly from

their original place—the Teutonic mythology. His giants and dwarfs are

also unaltered as complete races. In his usage of them he differs in

some respects from the older stories.

Fafnir, the son of Rodmar, becomes the giant Fafner, and his brother

Fasolt is added. Regin is transformed into Mime, the master-smith.

Instead of Otter, who must be covered by gems, we have the love

goddess Friea, and instead of the hair which the Ring must cover in the

old legend, it is in Wagner’s adaptation one of Friea’s beautiful eyes.

Fafner hides in Hate Hole instead of upon Glistenheath, and is killed

by Siegfried instead of Sigurd. The lonely Walküres’ Rock takes the

place of the house on the hill, and instead of being made invulnerable

by the Dragon’s blood, Siegfried is protected by Brünnhilde’s spells—a

fancy which seems more poetic and beautiful, but which originates, I

believe, entirely with Wagner. Gutrune takes the place of Kreimhild,

and Hagan is not Gunther’s vassal, but his half-brother. These are,

after all, apparently slight changes, yet to Wagner’s cycle a new

poetry seems to have come. The barbaric aspects of the tale have faded,

and all the simple beauty of those wild, noble gods and demi-gods has

gleamed forth as gloriously as the wonderful Rhinegold, which the

master has made next in importance to the gods and the dusk of their

splendor.

Before going further, perhaps it might be well to say a few words of

explanation as to the motifs which form the key-notes of Wagner’s great

musical dramas.

When he set his poem of the Nibelungen Ring to music, he was not

satisfied with merely beautiful airs and harmonies linked together with

no purpose save the lovely sounds. He wished, above all, to have his

music fit his words; and for every character and thought and incident,

and indeed for almost everything in his operas, he wrote a melody,

and these descriptive musical phrases are called _motifs_. Each one

has its meaning, and when it is played it brings the thought of what

it describes and represents, and it makes a double language—what the

characters on the stage are saying and what the music is saying, as

well. Through the motifs we understand many things which we could not

possibly comprehend otherwise.

That Wagner wished to give the impression that Erda was the mother of

all beings, divine and human, at the beginning of the world, he has

shown by the fact that the motif of the Primal Element—the commencement

of all things—is identical with hers, save that where she is indicated

the melody takes a minor coloring, denoting her character of mystery

as well as the gloom in which her prophetic powers must necessarily

envelop her. The contrasting, yet harmonizing, elements of earth and

water are also shadowed forth, I think, in this motif of the Primal

Element, which is used for the _Rhine_, and also for the Goddess of

the _Earth_. When the Vala’s daughters—the Nornir—are mirrored in the

music, the same melody appears, fraught with the waving, weaving sound

of their mystic spinning.

The motifs in Wagner’s operas are, above all, descriptive. For example,

note the Walhalla, Nibelung, and Giant motifs.

The first of these, full of power, substance, and dignity, not only is

descriptive of the great palace itself, but also represents the entire

race of gods who inhabit it, seemingly secure in their conscious glory

and sovereignty. To indicate Wotan, the King of the gods and the ruler

in Walhalla, Wagner has constantly made use of this motif.

Its melody is measured, strong, and simple, and the nobility of those

worshipped gods of primeval years seems to breathe through it.

The Nibelungs were so intimately associated with their work that

they were scarcely more than living machines—soulless exponents of

the art of the forge and the anvil; so when we hear in the music the

beat of hammers—the sharp, metallic clang in measured time, our first

thought is that the hammers are swung by the Nibelungs. How cramped is

their melody, how monotonous and hopeless is the regular fall of the

hammers! When we hear it hushed and veiled with discords, we seem to

come in contact with the narrow, darkened souls of the Nibelungs.

And now we come to the motif of the giants.

It is, like themselves, heavy, lumbering, with a slur that is like

the stumbling of heavy feet. Clumsy and ungraceful, it and what it

represents cross the idyllic beauty of the motifs of Friea, Walhalla,

the Ring, the Rhinegold, and the rest, with a harsh and disagreeable

sense of an inharmonious element. How different from the majestic gods,

and the clever, small-souled Nibelungs, are these great creatures who

are all bodies and no brains, and who are so ably represented by the

music allotted them in the operas! Yet, in their own way, they and

their motif are extremely picturesque!

In these three motifs we can see the genius which formed them, and

so many others, even greater in conception and execution. Scattered

throughout _The Story of the Rhinegold_ will be found a few of these

motifs—only a few and not the most lovely—but enough I think to help

one, in a small way, to follow the operas with more interest and

understanding than if one did not know them.

One of the simplest motifs in the book is one of the most important:

the Rhinegold motif. It is like the blowing of a fairy horn heralding

to the world of sprites and elves the magic wonder in the river.

In the olden days they had a lovely legend of the formation of the

Rhinegold. They said that the sun’s rays poured down into the Rhine

so brilliantly every day that, through some magic—no one knew exactly

how—the glowing reflection became bright and beautiful gold, filled

with great mystic powers because of its glorious origin—the sunshine.

And that was the beginning of the Rhinegold.

A.A.C.

CONTENTS

Part I

THE RHINEGOLD, OR _DAS RHEINGOLD_

PAGE

PRELUDE 3

CHAPTER

I. THE RHINE MAIDENS 8

II. FASOLT AND FAFNER 13

III. NIBELHEIM 18

IV. THE RAINBOW BRIDGE 24

Part II

THE WARRIOR GODDESS, OR _DIE WALKÜRE_

PRELUDE 33

CHAPTER

I. THE HOUSE OF HUNDING 37

II. THE DAUGHTER OF WOTAN 45

III. BRÜNNHILDE’S PUNISHMENT 54

Part III

SIEGFRIED

PRELUDE 63

CHAPTER

I. SIEGFRIED AND MIME 67

II. HATE HOLE 79

III. THE MOUNTAIN PASS 88

IV. THE WALKÜRES’ ROCK 95

Part IV

THE DUSK OF THE GODS, OR _GÖTTERDÄMMERUNG_

PRELUDE 103

CHAPTER

I. THE HALL OF THE GIBICHUNGS 107

II. THE WALKÜRES’ ROCK ONCE MORE 113

III. THE RHINE CHIEF’S BRIDE 118

IV. ON THE BANKS OF THE RHINE 124

V. THE LAST TWILIGHT 133

ILLUSTRATIONS

WOTAN AND BRÜNNHILDE _Frontispiece_

THE GLEAMING TREASURE _Facing p._ 10

A WARRIOR GODDESS 34

THE WALKÜRE APPEARS 50

SIEGFRIED AT THE FORGE 76

THE DEATH OF THE DRAGON 82

BRÜNNHILDE ON THE WALKÜRES’ ROCK 104

GUTRUNE AND SIEGFRIED 110

BRÜNNHILDE AND SIEGFRIED 116

GUNTHER AND BRÜNNHILDE 122

HAGEN AND SIEGFRIED 128

AFTER SIEGFRIED’S DEATH 130

Part I

THE RHINEGOLD, OR _DAS RHEINGOLD_

[Music: Motif of the Rhinegold]

PRELUDE

We have, all of us, read of the Golden Age, when the gods ruled over

the world, and giants and dragons, dwarfs and water-fairies inhabited

the earth and mingled with mortals. The giants were then a strong,

stupid race, more rough than cruel, and, as a rule, generous among

themselves. They were very foolish creatures, and constantly did

themselves and others harm; but their race, even at that time, was

dying out, and there were left of it only two brothers, Fasolt and

Fafner.

The dwarfs, or Nibelungs, were entirely different. They were small and

misshapen, but very shrewd, and so skilful were their fingers that they

were able to do the most difficult work in the finest metals. They

lived in an underground country called Nibelheim (Home of the Dwarfs),

where they collected hoards of gold and gems, and strange treasures of

all kinds; and Alberich was one of them. He was a hideous creature,

so dark and evil-looking, with his small, wicked eyes and his hair and

beard the color of ink, that he was always called Black Alberich—a very

suitable name.

As for the dragons, they were rare even in those days, and though we

shall have to deal with one by-and-by when we are further on in my

story, I shall not say much about them now.

The water-fairies were beautiful spirits who lived in the depths of the

river Rhine. They were simple and innocent, as became children of the

Golden Age, and very lovely to look upon. In the peaceful twilight-land

under the water they were perfectly happy, dancing in and out among the

rocks at the river bottom, and singing soft songs, which, when wafted

up to the surface of the Rhine, sounded like the faint sighing ripple

of the river as it rolled onward through the valleys and the woods.

And the water-fairies had one great happiness in their quiet, shadowed

lives. I will tell you what it was: On the top of a tall black rock in

the river Rhine there rested a magical treasure, more wonderful than

any of the Nibelung hoards, or the possessions of the gods themselves—a

bright, beautiful Gold, the radiance of which was so great that when

the sun shone down into the river and touched it the gray-green water

was filled with golden light from depth to depth, and the fairies of

the Rhine circled about their treasure, singing and laughing with

delight.

What a wonderful time it must have been—the Golden Age—when such things

were possible!

You smile and say that they were not possible, even then! Remember

that this is a fairy tale—a day-dream—such as might come to you while

watching the sunlit ripples dancing on the water, and hearing the

little waves lapping on the pebbles—a fairy tale, that is all.

The Golden Age, as I think of it, seems a period in which anything

might have happened. Closing my eyes, I can picture the majestic gods

moving, great kings and queens among human beings; great kings and

queens made young by Friea’s apples of youth. Friea was the Goddess of

Love, Youth, and Beauty. She was the same as Venus, the Roman goddess,

called Aphrodite by the Greeks, of whom, perhaps, you have read

elsewhere. All that I am writing about happened, you know, in Germany;

and to the people there the gods—or rather men’s ideas of them, and

their names for them—were different from those of other lands.

So the King God, instead of being Jupiter, or Zeus, or Jove, was

called Wotan, or sometimes Odin. And the Queen Goddess was neither

Juno nor Hera, but Fricka; and the wild Thunder God was Thor; and the

Goddess of the Earth Erda, which means the earth. She was the wisest of

all the gods and goddesses (though Logi, the Fire God, was the quickest

and cleverest), and she could prophesy strange things about the gods

and the world, and everything happened just as she prophesied.

She would sink into the earth and dream, and all her dreams came true.

She would tell them to her daughters, the three Norns, or Fates, and

they would weave them into a long golden thread, into which they had

spun the world’s history.

They spun under a great ash-tree which grew by the Fountain of Wisdom,

and was called the Tree of the World.

One day Wotan, the king of the gods, came to the fountain for a draught

of the Water of Wisdom. He drank, and left one of his eyes in payment.

He tore a limb from the World-Ash and made it into a spear; and the

spear, having strange figures upon it representing Law and Knowledge,

was typical of the wisdom and power of the gods, and so long as that

wisdom and that power endured no sword could break the spear nor could

remain whole at its touch.

But the World-Ash, robbed of its branches, withered away and died, and

the Fountain of Wisdom became dry.

And these things were the beginning of the end of the Golden Age.

But wise people say that the Golden Age did not end until men began

to value gold for its own sake and the love of gain, and to do wrong

things to possess it. And now I will tell you how it all happened.

[Music: Motif of the Primal Element, out of which come the Erda, Norn,

and Rhine Motifs]

[Music: Song of the Rhine Maidens

Weia waga, wavering waters, weaving and whirling!

Walala weia!]

CHAPTER I

THE RHINE MAIDENS

At the bottom of the river Rhine, about the dark rock where rested the

invisible Rhinegold, there swam one morning before sunrise the Gold’s

fair guardians, the three children of the Rhine. They were beautiful

maidens, these three water-spirits, the most lovely of all the river

people, and their names were Flosshilde, Woglinde, and Wellgunde. They

were singing softly, and glancing constantly up to the rock’s crest,

waiting for the appearance of the Rhinegold, which could only be seen

when the sun had risen up above and sent its rays into the water to

disclose the treasure. They sang a little rippling refrain that meant

nothing except laughter and joy, and sounded very like the ripples of

the water themselves:

“Weia waga—”

sang Woglinde,

“Wavering waters, weaving and whirling,

Walala weia!”

And so they sang on, till their voices mingled so with the ripple that

both voices and water became almost one in sound.

Now, while these three lovely maids, seeming almost part of the water

in their dresses of shimmering blue-green, with pale wreaths of river

flowers in their hair, and their white arms looking frail as moonbeams

as they raised them through the water—while they moved about the rock

singing and laughing together, a strange, dark little man stood near

watching them. He had risen out of a black chasm in one of the rocks,

and he had come from far Nibelheim, through an underground passage. He

had small eyes, his hair and beard were the color of ink, and he looked

very wicked. Can you guess who he was?

He shouted gruffly to the Rhine Maidens, and they, being much amused

at his ugly appearance, drew near with laughter and mocking words.

They led him wild chases in among the rocks, they played with him merry

games of hide-and-seek—merry for them, but not at all so for him, for

he was clumsy in motion compared with them, and he became very angry

because he could not follow them over the rocks.

“Smooth, slippery, slush and slime,” he grumbled. “The dampness makes

me sneeze.”

At last, just as he had become thoroughly angry, there appeared

suddenly a strange brightness at the top of the rock—a wonderful golden

light that glowed with ever-increasing brilliance down into the water.

“Ah, see, sisters!” cried Woglinde. “The awakening sun laughs down into

the depths.”

“Yes,” said Wellgunde, with soft delight, “it greets the slumbering

Gold!”

“With a kiss of light the Gold is aroused!” said Flosshilde. And,

joining hands, they swam excitedly about the rock, singing in bursts of

gladness:

“Weia waga,

Weia waga,

Rhinegold, Rhinegold,

Glorious joy.”

“You gliders,” questioned Alberich (for it was he), “what is this

that gleams and glistens over yonder?”

[Illustration: THE GLEAMING TREASURE]

Laughing at his ignorance, the nymphs told him that it was a magical

Gold; that whoever made a Ring from it would have greater power than

any one else alive; that he could possess all the wealth of the world

if he wished; and they so described the fairy powers of the treasure

that Alberich’s wicked soul began to thrill with desire to have it as

his own.

The sisters further told him that the Gold was safe from thieves,

because it could only be stolen by some one who had made up his mind

never to love any one except himself so long as he might live.

“We have nothing to fear,” said gentle Woglinde, “for every one who

lives must love.”

But Alberich pondered silently. “All the wealth in the world!” he

thought. “For that who would not give up love?” And he sprang wildly up

the rocks.

“Listen, waves and water-witches!” he shouted, as he reached towards

the gleaming treasure. “Never will I, the Dwarf, give love to any

creature save myself through all my life.” And while, with wild cries,

the Rhine Maidens hastened near to prevent him, Alberich, the Nibelung,

tore the Rhinegold from the tall, black rock, and fled with it into

the black chasm, and so to Nibelheim.

And, left behind, the nymphs could only wail for their lost joy with

sobs and cries of “Sorrow, sorrow! Ah—to rescue the Gold!”

But it was too late. And in the dark hollow chasm, Alberich, fleeing

with the treasure, laughed at their despair.

[Music: Motif of the Giants]

[Music: Motif of Friea]

CHAPTER II

FASOLT AND FAFNER

One morning not long afterwards the rising sun shone upon strange

things up among the gods.

Wotan, and Fricka his wife, waking upon the mountain-top where they

had slept that night, gazed up to where, built among the clouds, the

spires of a wonderful palace glittered in the sunshine—Walhalla, the

fair, new home of the gods.

It had been built at Wotan’s command by Fasolt and Fafner, the two

brother giants, and they had been promised, in payment, the goddess

Friea. But Wotan had never intended giving her to them, and so he told

Fricka when she spoke anxiously of the reward promised the giants,

declaring that the goddess was as precious to him as to her.

Even as he spoke Friea rushed wildly in, calling upon him to save her

from the rude giants. In answer, Wotan asked where Logi, the Fire God,

could be found, saying that where cunning and craft were needed, Logi

was the one most to be sought after. But, look as he might, the wayward

Fire God was nowhere to be seen.

And then came the great brothers, bearing huge clubs, and fiercely

clamoring for a reward for their labors in building Walhalla.

“You slept while we worked,” they said. “Now claim we our payment.”

“What price do you demand?” asked Wotan, pretending not to remember any

promised reward. “What will you take as wages?”

“Would you deceive us so?” cried Fasolt, in astonished rage. “Friea

you promised us. We worked right heartily to win us so fair a woman.”

“Hush!” muttered Fafner. “Listen to me! Without Friea’s apples of youth

the gods will grow old, and their glory will fade away. They will die

like human beings if Friea be taken from them.”

So the giants talked together, planning how to steal the lovely

goddess, who stood aside trembling, fearing that Wotan would refuse to

protect her from the two savage workmen.

He meanwhile merely murmured softly to himself, “Logi is long coming,”

and gazed expectantly about. But still the Fire God could not be seen.

Thor and Froh, two other gods, had appeared. The giants were growing

more impatient and Friea more despairing, when Logi at last arrived.

When he did he talked on a variety of subjects before he would pay any

attention to the affairs that were worrying the other gods and the

giants. But at last he set his clever brain to work at some plan by

which his fair sister Friea might be saved. Knowing well the love of

wealth characteristic of the giants, he told the story of the Rhinegold

and the stealing of it by the Nibelung. He said that he had heard the

maids weeping for their lost treasure, and had promised them that

Wotan, the King God, would return it to them in time. The two giants

began to feel the same desire for it that Alberich had had, and to

whisper together concerning it, so vividly did Logi describe its powers.

“It seems,” muttered Fafner, “that this Gold is worth even more than

Friea.” And he cried out suddenly: “Listen, Wotan, you wise one! We

will give up Friea; but you will instead bestow upon us the Nibelung’s

Gold.”

“We will hold her meanwhile as ransom!” cried Fasolt. And they dragged

her away, despite her piteous appeals, to Riesenheim (or Home of the

Giants), leaving the gods perplexed and sorrowing for their lost

goddess.

As they stood silently together a mist seemed to steal upward from the

ground, and floated between them. A strange shadow rested upon the

faces of the gods. They looked pale and wrinkled; their hair was white.

“Alas! What has happened?” wailed Fricka, faintly.

The gods were growing old.

“See, then,” said Logi, the shrewd one. “Our Youth Goddess has gone. We

are old; we are gray. The race of gods will come to an end.”

Wotan started and looked about him. His face was pale.

“Down, Logi! Let us go down to Nibelheim!” he cried. “The Gold shall be

had for ransom.”

The gods called out good wishes after them through the mist, and Wotan,

the King God, and his fire-servant, Logi, went down through the hollow,

shadowy passages under the earth to Nibelheim, the home of the dwarfs.

[Music: Ring Motif]

[Music: Nibelung Motif]

CHAPTER III

NIBELHEIM

Alberich had forged a Ring from the Rhinegold, and, wearing it,

possessed absolute power over the rest of the Nibelungs. He was the

King Dwarf, ruler over all Nibelheim, the Land of Gloom. Ah! what a

land of gloom it was! Through the dark shadows there streamed fitfully

a lurid light from the forges where the dwarfs were working; their

hammers clanged monotonously on the anvils. Slowly they laid the

results of their toil in great heaps, and Alberich laughed at their

weariness and gloated over the treasures, which he promptly claimed as

his own.

Among the Nibelungs was one particularly crooked and ill-shapen, named

Mime. He was Alberich’s half-brother, and, not unnaturally, hated the

Black King with all his strength; for Alberich treated him even more

cruelly than the others.

Mime, at Alberich’s command, made a wonderful cap of darkness out of

some of the Rhinegold, which not only had the power of making its

wearer invisible at will, but could change him into whatever shape he

wished. This Alberich wore, and changed himself into a column of mist,

in which shape he found he could move about much faster, and make

things much harder for the dwarfs.

“Hohei, all you Nibelungs! Kneel to your King! Now he is everywhere,

all about you, unseen, but felt and heard, you idlers!”

And the column of mist drifted off through a rocky passage, leaving

Mime whimpering upon the ground.

Now, with the clang of the hammers there mingled the sound of steps,

and from the black crevice in the rocks came two figures slowly down to

Nibelheim. One was tall and majestic, with a helmet of gold and steel,

a long cloak with strange designs upon it, and a deep golden beard that

hung far down over his breast; one of his eyes was missing, and in his

hand he bore a great spear.

The other was clothed in brilliant red, his eyes were bright, his step

swift as a springing flame in dead grass. They were Wotan and Logi

searching for the Rhinegold.

Logi accosted Mime in friendly fashion, and asked what was wrong with

him.

“That wretch, my brother!” grumbled the Dwarf. “He treats us all

cruelly. Leave me in peace!”

“How came Alberich by his power?” asked the Fire God.

“From the ruddy Rhinegold he made a Ring. With it he rules us. But,”

asked the Nibelung, staring at them, “who are you both?”

“Friends that perhaps may free the Nibelung people,” laughed Logi,

and at the same time Alberich appeared, scolding, screaming, and

ill-treating all who came in his way. Driving Mime away with the rest

of the dwarfs, he, scowling, asked the two gods what they wished.

“We heard of the wonders worked by Alberich,” answered Wotan. “We come

to behold them.”

“Pooh! I know you well,” said the Dwarf King. “Such notable guests”—and

he sneered—“could only have been led by envy to Nibelheim.”

“Surely you know me,” said Logi. “I have lit your forges, gnome. Cannot

you trust me?”

“To be sure I know you,” grinned Alberich. “And I will always trust you

to be untrustworthy. I don’t fear you.”

“How brave you are,” said Logi, in pretended admiration.

“Do you see that treasure?” said the Nibelung, proudly pointing to a

great heap of gold and gems.

The gods assented.

“But,” said Wotan, “what good does it do you, here in Nibelheim?”

Alberich glared at him, and then laughed.

“Ha! ha! But wait!” he said. “You gods! You gods! You have looked down

upon us Nibelungs. Now we, with the help of the Golden Ring, will sway

the whole world. We will storm the gates of Walhalla! Beware! Ha! ha!

Do you hear me? Beware!”

Wotan, in anger, started forward, but Logi slipped in front of him.

“Most wonderful are you, O Nibelung!” he said, admiringly. “I salute

you as the mightiest creature alive. But tell me one thing, O wise

one. How guard you your Ring from thieves?”

“Does Logi think that all are as foolish as himself?” asked Alberich.

“That danger I provided for. A Cap of Darkness, called the Tarnhelm,

is mine, to change me into whatever shape I wish, and also to hide me

at any time. So, my friend, guard I my Ring, sleeping or waking, as I

wish.”

“Wondrous above all it seems!” cried Logi. “Prove it, O Dwarf!”

“That I will. What shape shall I take?”

“Whatever you wish,” answered Logi. “It is sure to be wonderful.”

Alberich placed the metal cap upon his head and became a great dragon,

writhing on the ground.

“Wonderful!” cried the gods.

“Yet I should again like to behold its magic. Is it possible to become

small as well as large by its aid?” asked Logi. “I beg of you show us

if you can become small, O great one!”

“Nothing easier!” cried Alberich, beginning to enjoy himself. “Look,

then, O gods!” He placed the helmet on his head and vanished. A toad

hopped on the ground in his stead.

“Quick! Hold him!” cried the Fire God; and Wotan firmly held the toad

with his foot, while Logi lifted up the Tarnhelm, which still rested

upon its great head. And behold! Alberich lay at their feet, struggling

and roaring with rage.

The Fire God produced a rope, and the two gods bound the Nibelung

and carried him with them up the dark passage-way through which they

had descended, and left behind them the crimson fires, the clanging

hammers, the gloom, and hopelessness of Nibelheim.

[Music: Motif of Alberich’s Spell]

CHAPTER IV

THE RAINBOW BRIDGE

Out of the underground world into the wild, mountainous country above,

veiled still with the strange gray mist of age, came the two gods and

their captive, Alberich.

He was snarling and grumbling, being much enraged at being bound by the

hated gods, and, above all, at having his beloved Tarnhelm in the hands

of Logi, whom he especially detested. Also, he feared that he would be

forced to give up the Ring, which he still wore on his finger; and,

partly to prevent the gods from wishing for this, he soon consented to

give them the hoard which his servants, the Nibelungs, had collected

in Nibelheim. Touching the Ring with his lips, he murmured a command,

or spell, and from the under-world came the little dark dwarfs bearing

great loads of treasure, which they placed at his feet.

Ashamed, and hating that they should see him a captive, Alberich loudly

ordered them off with threats and harsh words, and then demanded that

the gods should release him, while the Nibelungs crept back into the

dark hole that led to Nibelheim.

Logi, casting the Tarnhelm upon the pile, asked if the Dwarf should be

freed.

“He wears a bright Ring,” said the King God. “Let it be added to the

heap!”

“The Ring!” wildly cried Alberich. “The Ring! I will never give it up!

It is mine!”

“Thief! You stole it from the Rhine Children,” said Wotan. “Do you

call it, then, yours?” and he tore the Ring from Alberich’s finger and

placed it on his own.

“Let him go!” he said to Logi, who obeyed, and the Nibelung was free.

Rising from the ground, he glared horribly at the gods.

“Listen to the spell I cast on the Ring!” he said, with a peal of wild

laughter. “None who possess it shall ever through it come to happiness.

Sorrow attends it, and whoever owns it shall know grief. His death

shall be sad, his life a failure. This doom shall attend the Ring until

it comes back to my hand. Hear the spell Alberich has placed on the

Gold!”

He laughed again, and vanished in the dark hole that led to Nibelheim.

Wotan stood silently gazing at the Ring on his finger. Logi, looking

off in the distance, saw Fasolt and Fafner nearing, with Friea. As she

came closer, the gray mist began to clear slightly away, though it

still hung about in heavy clouds, hiding Walhalla’s spires. Fricka,

Thor, and Froh, quickly drawing near from another direction, spoke of

the growing warmth and clearness of the air.

“Dear sister, welcome back to us!” cried Fricka, as the giants strode

out with Friea. But, when the two goddesses started forward to meet

each other, Fasolt caught hold of his captive and held her fast.

“Wait! Wait!” he cried. “Where is the ransom?”

“Behold it!” said Wotan, pointing to the heap of treasure.

The giants declared that when a pile of gold had been erected high

enough to hide the Love Goddess from view, they would return her to the

gods—but not before. Accordingly, a heap was made which, as it grew

higher with added treasure, soon hid Friea entirely, save for a gleam

of her bright hair, which Fafner’s keen eye descried. The Tarnhelm

must go to hide it.

That accomplished, Fasolt strained his eyes to find an unfilled

crevice. Through a tiny space he beheld one of the goddess’s eyes, and

demanded the Ring to fill up the chink.

“The Ring!” exclaimed Wotan, starting back.

“The Ring!” cried Logi. “Nonsense! It is the Rhine Children’s treasure.

The King God will return it to them.”

“Foolish you are,” said Wotan, in a low voice. “I shall keep it myself.”

“Bad is the prospect for the fulfilment of my promise to the weeping

Rhine Children,” said Logi, softly.

“Your promise does not bind me,” said the King of the Gods. “I shall

keep the Ring.”

“Hand over the ransom!” cried Fafner, loudly.

“Never!” said Wotan.

“Then Friea is ours!” roared the giants, and they grasped her once more.

The gods, in chorus, begged Wotan to give the wranglers the treasure,

but he was deaf to their entreaties. His eyes were fastened upon the

bright Ring’s glitter; he was blind to all else.

Suddenly the light seemed to die out from the world. All grew dark.

From a black chasm in the rocks rose a woman’s figure in a strange

halo of blue light. Her face was pale, with a look of deepest mystery

upon it. Lifting her hand, she spoke in low, solemn tones to Wotan:

“Hear my warning! Avoid the Ring, with its terrible spell! Heed me, O

Wotan!”

“Who are you who warn me?” asked the god.

“I understand all things; wisest in all the world am I. The witch-wife

Erda, men call me, Mother of the Norns. Listen, listen, listen! A day

of dusk and gloom is coming for the gods. Beware of the Ring!”

She sank down into the earth once more. The blue light faded away. As

she vanished she spoke again:

“Think well on what I have said!”

She was gone. Slowly the light came back to the world. Lost in thought,

Wotan stood a moment; then turned quickly to the giants, and tore the

Ring from his finger.

“It is yours!” he declared; and he tossed it on to the pile. “Back to

us, Friea!” and the Love Goddess gladly flew back to their midst.

Fafner and Fasolt began fighting over the Ring at once, and Alberich’s

dark spell quickly made itself felt. For Fasolt, seizing the Ring, was

killed by his brother, who, with Ring and treasure, fled away to a

far cave, named Hate Hole, and there, in the shape of a great dragon,

guarded his hoard in loneliness for many years. But that is a different

part of my story.

After the death of Fasolt and the flight of Fafner with the treasure,

the clouds hanging low over the gods were cleared away by a great

storm, and, as Walhalla appeared shining in the sun, a rainbow bridge

spanned the space between the palace and the gods, who passed over it

to their new home.

“These gods—how foolish and blind!” said Logi to himself, as he went

with them. “I feel ashamed that I am one of them, bound to share in

their doings.”

The beautiful palace glittered brightly. The gods smiled as they passed

over the rainbow bridge. Only from the Rhine below there came a sound

of wailing.

“O Rhinegold! Rhinegold!” sang the weeping Rhine daughters. “We long

for your light. Trustful are those in the water; false are those above.”

[Music: Walhalla Motif]

Part II

THE WARRIOR GODDESS, or _DIE WALKÜRE_

[Music: Storm Motif]

PRELUDE

I shall now take a long leap in my story, going on to a time when the

gods had been happy in Walhalla for many years. Wotan alone felt dreary

forebodings, though, as yet, there were no real signs of any downfall

of the gods. So heavy were these presentiments that he began to fill

his halls with heroes able to defend Walhalla, if Alberich should

ever regain the Ring, and, keeping his word, storm the gates of the

gods’ palace. At Wotan’s command, his nine daughters, the Walküres (or

Warrior Goddesses) watched over all combats between heroes, carrying

those who were killed to Walhalla, where Friea’s smiles brought them to

life again.

And this was not the only strange thing that had come to pass since the

gods had entered their new palace.

Among Wotan’s descendants were a race of people called the Volsungs,

and at the time of which I am writing only two of them were alive,

a boy and a girl, who had been brought up from babyhood almost like

brother and sister, and who were very much alike, having the golden

hair of their ancestor Wotan, and eyes in which there was a curious

glitter, as bright as that of the snake’s glance.

Both were as beautiful as the sun, like all the Volsungs; both were

strong and warm-hearted and noble, and they loved each other as much as

though they had been really brother and sister.

While still very young, they became separated for years; for, while the

boy was out hunting, the girl, Sieglinde, was stolen away by a robber

named Hunding. She led a dreary life as the Robber’s servant, until she

became a woman. But she always felt confident that help would come to

her in time, because one night, at a feast given by Hunding, a stranger

had entered, robed in the rough garb of a wanderer, but with kingly

bearing. One of his eyes was missing. He had struck a sword into the

trunk of a great tree which grew up from the centre of Hunding’s house,

declaring that whoever could draw it out should have it for his own.

And all had tried their best, but the blade would not yield an inch.

[Illustration: A WARRIOR GODDESS]

Then the Wanderer had laughed and departed. But Sieglinde, thinking of

it dreamily, remembered that, while he had frowned on the others, he

had looked kindly on her; and, gazing at the sword, she began to feel,

after a while, that whoever could pull it forth would be her rescuer.

And so the years passed.

She did not know that the Wanderer had been none other than the first

father of all the race of Volsungs—Wotan, the king of the gods.

Siegmund, the boy, as he grew to manhood, became a very wolf in

wildness, but a great warrior, and a stanch hero. He led a roving life,

with few friends, and, alas! many enemies. His generous heart brought

him into sad dilemmas sometimes; as, for instance, when, at a maiden’s

request, he defended her from her relations, who wished to marry her to

some one whom she hated. When, in doing battle for her, he killed one

of her kinsmen, she had flung herself upon the dead man and accused her

defender of cruelty.

He fought the rude warriors who were pressing up about her until his

weapons were torn from him, and he was driven away into the woods

through a wild storm which seemed to blow him on with irresistible

violence, until he found himself at the door of a house.

Utterly exhausted, he staggered in, filled only with the desire to rest

and shelter his tired body from the storm. And the house was that of

Hunding, the Robber.

[Music: Hunding Motif]

[Music: Volsung Motif]

CHAPTER I

THE HOUSE OF HUNDING

Outside the storm was raging, the great pines were bending in the wild

gale, the thunder and lightning were in mad commotion.

Inside, rude as the hut was, there were warmth and apparent peace. A

large fire burned on the hearth, and sent its fitful glare from time

to time flashing about the bare hall; now shining on the sword-hilt in

the great oak-tree growing in the centre; now lighting the dark corners

with a faint red gleam. A heap of skins was beside the hearth, and upon

this Siegmund sank exhausted.

As he lay there the door opened, and Sieglinde came quickly from an

inner room. Frightened by the sight of a stranger, she accosted him in

trembling tones. Receiving no answer, she came nearer, and, looking

down at him, she saw a strong, tall man, with golden hair, and a face

as beautiful as the sun. Caught over his shoulder was a great black

bear-skin, and his face was like that of a king among men. His eyes

were closed as she bent over him; but, after a moment or two, he opened

them and gasped faintly, “Water! Water!” only to sink back once more,

exhausted, as Sieglinde hastened away to draw him a draught at the

spring. She was soon back with what he had asked for, and, giving it,

looked down kindly as he drank.

When he had finished, he gazed up at her and saw a beautiful maiden,

with the rough, gray skin of some wild animal worn loosely over her

long white robe. She had hair of as deep a gold as his own, and a face

full of sweetness and a sympathy that he had never known before.

Rising from the hearth, he gently wished her good fortune, and thanked

her for her kindness to a friendless man, who must now pass on his way

lest the sorrow which followed his footsteps should come to her; and,

so saying, was about to leave the house when Sieglinde, who in some

way felt that this man was to be her rescuer, sprang forward and begged

him to stay, saying that as sorrow had dwelt in the house for many days

she did not fear its coming. So he consented to remain until Hunding,

who was out hunting, should return.

Going back to the hearth, he stood there quietly looking, in a long

silence, towards Sieglinde, and both felt, I think, that it was Fate

that he, and none other, should stay and rescue her. So they stood

silently waiting for the Robber’s return, and the fire crackled and

glowed and flickered about the hall.

Suddenly, Sieglinde started; for the sound of hoofs broke the

stillness, and they could hear the Robber leading his horse to the

stable. Almost directly afterwards the door opened, and Hunding himself

came in. He was not a pleasant-looking creature, for he was very tall

and very broad-shouldered, and as wild in appearance as a wolf, and

his face was dark and angry. His long hair and beard were black and

tangled, his eyes were fierce, and he wore queer, jangling armor and

bands of steel on his bare arms.

He stopped short, and sternly pointed to the stranger, glaring at

Sieglinde in great anger. Reading a fierce question in his look, she

answered, quietly:

“I found this man weary upon the hearth. Need drove him into the house.”

Hunding relented a little; and, after handing her his shield and

weapons, said quietly to Siegmund:

“Safe is my hearth! Safe for you is my house!” Then, turning to

Sieglinde, he roughly bade her hasten with the supper. She bore away

the heavy weapons and rested them against the tree in the centre of

the hall; then went about arranging the evening meal. As they sat down

on the rough seats around the scantily spread table, Hunding asked his

guest his name, and whence he had come on so stormy a night. Sieglinde

leaned eagerly forward as the warrior began his tale.

He told them the story of his life, only calling himself Woful the

Wolfing instead of Siegmund the Volsung. And when he came to the tale

of the maiden and her kinsmen, and of how he had killed one of them,

and fought the others until he was disarmed and driven into the forest,

Hunding rose in great anger and stood looking at his guest with wrath

in his eyes.

“You win every one’s hate,” he declared. “My friends sent for me to

help them revenge the shedding of blood. I went to their aid, but it

was too late. Now, when I return, I find the enemy himself upon my

hearth. They were my friends against whom you fought; and, though

to-night custom makes you safe as a guest in my house, to-morrow you

shall die, Wolfing! So be prepared!”

So both the Robber and his servant, the maiden Sieglinde, went away,

leaving Siegmund alone by the hearth, sad and a little perplexed.

For Sieglinde, as she left the hall, had pointed swiftly towards the

sword-hilt buried in the tree. The fire leaped up wildly as he stood

gazing towards the oak, and the light touched the bright hilt and

painted it red for a moment, then died once more. Siegmund dreamily

wondered if the light on the steel had been left by the glance

Sieglinde had cast towards it. For you see he had fallen in love with

this lovely woman, who looked at him so kindly, and whose face was as

fair and beautiful as the sun.

The gold and rosy flashes from the fire grew fainter, the shadows

deepened, and Siegmund fell asleep.

Now perhaps you wonder why he stayed there instead of going out into

the night, where he would be safe. There were three good reasons to

keep him.

In the first place, he was too brave a hero to fly from danger; and, in

the second place, he did not want to leave the beautiful maiden alone

in the Robber’s power; and the third reason was as good a one as either

of the others. Hunding had said: “Custom makes you safe as a guest in

my house,” which meant that it would be both unfair and wrong if he,

Hunding, killed a stranger taking shelter under his roof. This was

called the Law of Hospitality, and the law was never taken advantage of

by any honorable guest. So, if Siegmund had run away after Hunding had

so well observed the Law of Hospitality he would have been dishonorable

as well as cowardly, and it was just as though he had given a promise

that he would not go away that night.

In the meantime Siegmund lay asleep. From an inner room came the

beautiful maiden swiftly to his side. Awaking him, she told him to

hurry away while there was yet time. She said that she had sprinkled

some sleep spices into Hunding’s wine, and that he would slumber

soundly and long; and she begged the guest to go away quietly into the

night and save himself.

Finally, she told him of the Wanderer who had come and struck the sword

into the oak-tree, and told him, too, how she had waited in vain for

some hero who would draw forth the sword and rescue her.

Siegmund said that he would claim the sword for his own, and drag it

from the tree, and, as he spoke, the door opened wide. Perhaps the good

fairies unlatched it. Without, it was very still; the storm had ceased,

and the moon was shining wondrously.

Then Sieglinde, looking in his face, seemed to see there a resemblance

to some one she had known long ago, and, gazing into his eyes, she

asked him if he were really a Wolfing.

“No, a Volsung!” replied the hero, proudly. And she cried out in joy:

“A Volsung! Are you, too, a Volsung—one of my race? It was for you,

indeed, that the Wanderer struck the sword into the oak.”

Springing to the tree, Siegmund laid his hand on the hilt and broke

into a wild chant, naming the sword which he had come to, when in such

pressing need, Nothung (or Needful).

With a mighty wrench he drew it out of the oak’s trunk, and held it

above his head.

“I am Siegmund the Volsung!” he shouted, exultantly.

Then he asked her more gently if she would follow him away from the

house of the enemy Hunding, telling her that if she would be his

wife he would defend her with Nothung, and make her life one long

spring-tide.

“As you are Siegmund, I am Sieglinde!” cried she, aloud. “It is right

that the Volsungs should become joined as one.”

And into the night they went away together; for the storm had ceased

and the brightness of the moonlight was most marvellous.

[Music: Sword Motif]

[Music: Brünnhilde’s Call

“Hoyotoho!”]

[Music: Motif of the Volsung’s heroism]

CHAPTER II

THE DAUGHTER OF WOTAN

Up in the mountains near a rocky gorge, where the wind swept and

the wild pines grew, stood Wotan, king of the gods, and before him,

awaiting his orders, was his favorite daughter, Brünnhilde, the Walküre.

She was very beautiful, more beautiful than any woman who ever

breathed. Her hair was golden bright, her figure queenly. When she

moved, the motion of a bird was not more fleet and graceful, and her

face was what you might suppose the face of a goddess would be. She

wore long white robes and glistening armor, and the wings in her bright

helmet were like snow. She bore a spear and shield also, for you know

she was a goddess of war, and, as her business was to attend the

battles of heroes, she arrayed herself accordingly.

She moved restlessly, and seemed anxious to be off, for at the top of a

rocky slope was not her horse, Grani, waiting for her to spring on his

back and gallop away through the clouds?

Wotan, whom, of course, you remember, stood leaning on his spear. He

looked for the moment glad, for he was very fond of his descendants,

the Volsungs, and he also believed that Siegmund would one day kill

Fafner, the Dragon, with the sword which had been placed in the oak for

the purpose, and would return to the Rhine Maidens their treasure. When

this should come to pass, the gods would have no more fear of Alberich.

When Wotan thought of all these possibilities, the dusk of the gods’

bright day seemed far off. So it was with a thrill of joy in his voice

that he spoke to Brünnhilde, and bade her make ready to attend the

fight between Siegmund and Hunding, which, as the Robber was already

hunting for his guest with fierce hounds, was sure to occur that day.

“Aid the Volsung, my brave maiden!” said the King God. “Overthrow

Hunding! Hasten to the battle!”

“Hoyotoho!” shouted the Walküre, waving her spear as she sprang up the

rocks. “Hoyotoho! Hoyotoho!”

On a high pinnacle of boulders she paused, and looked down on Wotan

once more. “Look well, father! Here comes Fricka. I leave you to her.”

With a clear burst of laughter she sped on again. Her boisterous

“Hoyotoho!” died away among the echoes.

In a golden car, drawn by two rams, came Fricka, the queen of the gods.

She seemed in great haste, and, springing to the ground, stood in all

her majesty before the King God, with anger in her eyes.

“I ask for right!” she began, drawing her scarlet draperies about

her. And she went on to demand vengeance for Hunding; vengeance upon

Siegmund, the guest, for having taken advantage of the host who had

observed so well the Law of Hospitality; vengeance upon him who, from

the house of Hunding, had stolen the Robber’s servant, Sieglinde.

All this made Wotan very unhappy, for he loved Siegmund, and already

in his heart had forgiven him for what he had done. Yet he knew that

all wrong must bring punishment, and asked Fricka what she wished him

to do.

“Call back the Walküre!” said the Queen Goddess, and there was a look

of triumph on her face. “Break the Volsung’s sword! Promise me!”

There was a pause.

“I—promise,” said the god, covering his face with his hands.

Triumphant and satisfied, Fricka drove away, and, as she went,

Brünnhilde, who had returned while the King and Queen were talking

together, and had led her horse into a cave near by, came to her

father, asking why he seemed so sorrowful.

Tenderly drawing her to him, he told her the story you know so well, of

the stealing of the Gold, the building of Walhalla, and the prophecy of

Erda. He told her of the day of which the Earth Witch had spoken, when

the world would be in twilight and gloom—the Dusk of the Gods.

He told her, too, the hopes he had had of the great deeds to be done by

Siegmund. He let her see how it filled him with the deepest sorrow to

overthrow the Volsung. But the Volsung had taken advantage of the Law

of Hospitality, and Wotan had promised that he would overthrow him; and

the promise must be kept. He bade her vanquish Siegmund in the coming

battle and give the victory to Hunding; then, heart-broken, he wended

his way among the rocks, and was gone.

Sadly Brünnhilde gazed after him. Her heart, too, was aching, because,

though she loved to carry heroes to Walhalla, she loved still more to

aid them in battle. She went slowly into the cave.

It was growing darker. Now, from out the gloom that filled the rocky

gorge came Siegmund and his beautiful wife, Sieglinde, seeking rest in

a sheltered place. Sieglinde was almost exhausted, for the way they

had come was long and hard; and, after trying vainly to make her tired

limbs carry her farther, she fainted at the young Volsung’s feet.

Tenderly he carried her to a rock near by, and, seating himself upon

it, gently supported her and stooped down to listen to her breathing.

As he raised his head, satisfied that she still lived, a grave, sweet

voice sounded on his ear. He turned his eyes to where stood a beautiful

woman in white and steel, one arm on the neck of her horse. It was the

Walküre, who, according to her custom, came to warn the man who was

shortly to be killed in battle. It grew still darker.

[Illustration: THE WALKÜRE APPEARS]

“Siegmund,” said the Walküre, “look on me! Soon you must follow me!”

Siegmund, wondering, asked who she was.

“Only those who are shortly to die may see my face,” answered

Brünnhilde. “I bear them away to Wotan, in Walhalla. There you will

find innumerable heroes who have died in battle. They will welcome you.”

Siegmund asked if his father, Volse, were among the heroes.

Brünnhilde answered “Yes.”

Quietly the young warrior asked if his beautiful bride might accompany

him.

The Walküre slowly shook her head.

“Lonely upon the earth she remains,” she answered. “Siegmund will see

Sieglinde no more.”

“Then greet Walhalla and the heroes for me,” said the Volsung; “for

there I will follow you not.”

“You have looked on the face of the Walküre,” said Brünnhilde. “You

must die.”

And, by degrees, she made him understand that death was awaiting

him, that he was doomed to be killed by Hunding. In despair Siegmund

raised Nothung, the sword, and declared that he would kill his wife and

himself, so that they might be together in death. But Brünnhilde, who

had felt her heart grow more and more tender towards this unhappy pair,

started forward, bidding him hope, and declared that she would help

him, instead of Hunding, in the combat, and save both himself and his

wife.

“I shall be with you in battle,” she promised; and she hurried away,

leading her horse.

It grew darker and darker. Storm-clouds were gathering, and the rocky

gorge was filled with a dense, black shadow. In the distance came the

sound of Hunding’s horn. Waving his sword, Siegmund sprang up the rocks

to meet the enemy.

Sieglinde, dreaming softly where her husband had left her, was awakened

by a wild burst of thunder and lightning. She started up frantically,

trying to see through the darkness. Clouds were all about her, veiling

the rocks on every side. Hunding’s deep horn-call sounded nearer and

nearer. Finally, from a high rock among the trees on the top of a

wooded slope she could hear the voices of the combatants and the

clash of weapons. Suddenly, in a vivid glare of lightning, Brünnhilde

appeared among the clouds, stooping low over Siegmund, and protecting

him with outstretched shield. Clear and strong rang out her voice over

the tumult:

“Be firm, Siegmund! Strike quickly.”

But now Sieglinde, staring wildly up through the darkness, paralyzed

with fright, saw a fierce crimson light—the light that heralded the

approach of the angry King God—and Wotan stood revealed in the clouds

above Hunding.

“Away from my spear!” he cried, in a terrible voice. “Let the sword be

splintered!” And he stretched out his weapon, made from the World-Ash.

Nothung was shivered in pieces upon it, and the Robber Hunding, with

one blow killed Siegmund, the Volsung.

With a great cry Sieglinde sank to the ground, but through the cloudy

darkness came Brünnhilde. She lifted the poor woman on her horse, and,

urging Grani to flight, sped away through the clouds.

Wotan, left alone with the Robber, turned towards him in contemptuous

anger. Before his gaze Hunding sank to the earth in death.

Suddenly the King God burst into supreme wrath.

“Brünnhilde, who has disobeyed me, must be punished!” he cried. And,

leaping upon his war-horse, he was gone through the clouds.

[Music: Motif of Siegmund and Sieglinde’s Love]

[Music: Motif of the Walküres’ Ride]

[Music: Motif of Brünnhilde’s Pleading]

[Music: Slumber Motif]

CHAPTER III

BRÜNNHILDE’S PUNISHMENT

It was a custom of the Walküres to meet every evening after their wild

rides, at a rock called “The Walküres’ Stone,” and thence go on to

Walhalla.

Upon the afternoon of the combat which had proved fatal to the Volsung,

the Walküres arrived one after the other at the rock. Only one was

missing—Wotan’s favorite, Brünnhilde.

The maidens sang merrily their Hoyotoho, waved their spears and climbed

the rocks, and kept a sharp lookout for Grani’s appearance in the

clouds. But it was very late before Brünnhilde was anywhere to be seen.

When she came, she brought with her Sieglinde, whom she was supporting.

In answer to her sisters’ anxious inquiries, the Walküre told them of

her disobedience and Sieglinde’s sorrow, and begged them to protect

Siegmund’s wife, and herself as well.

“And see, O sisters, if Wotan draws nigh!” she begged.

“A thunder-cloud approaches,” called Ortlinde, one of the Walküres,

from her high pinnacle of rock.

“The clouds grow thicker,” cried Waltraute. “Our father comes,” they

exclaimed in unison.

“Shelter this woman,” begged Brünnhilde. For she knew that Wotan, in

his rage, might kill the wife of the warrior whom he had overthrown.

But the maidens feared their father’s anger, and would give no aid.

So, at last, Brünnhilde told Sieglinde to fly and hide herself in the

forest, and that she, the Walküre, would remain behind to bear the

brunt of Wotan’s anger. Brünnhilde drew from under her shield the

splinters of Nothung, which she had picked up on the battle-field,

and gave them with words of kindness and comfort to Sieglinde, who,

murmuring tender thanks, sped away into the woods and was gone.

Then even Brünnhilde’s brave heart began to fail her. A great storm had

arisen, and amid the crash of thunder came Wotan’s voice calling her

name in tones of anger. Trembling, she took her place in the centre of

the group of maidens, concealed from view by them.

Surrounded by red light came Wotan, having left his war-steed snorting

in the wood.

“Where is Brünnhilde?” he demanded. But the Walküres, in trembling

tones, merely asked the cause of his anger. In growing rage, Wotan

commanded Brünnhilde to come forward and receive her punishment,

reproaching her in scornful words for hiding among her sisters.

Quietly the Walküre came out from among them, and stood before him. She

was quite ready to receive her sentence, whatever it might be, and bent

her head to listen to her father’s words.

Her punishment, Wotan told her, was to be this: She was to be laid in

helpless sleep, at the mercy of the first passer-by who might choose

to awaken her. Him she must follow as his wife, for, when she was

awakened from her sleep, she would be a woman—a goddess no longer.

Heart-broken, Brünnhilde sank to the ground with a cry. To be made

mortal seemed to her the most terrible punishment possible. And it

seemed so to the other Walküres as well. They besought the King God to

have mercy on their sister, but he was firm.

Amid wails of despair and pity for Brünnhilde, the Walküres separated

and rushed wildly out of sight in all directions. Only the echoes of

their cries and the last faint sound of their horses’ hoofs remained as

they rode off through the clouds.

The storm died away. All was quiet now. Slowly Brünnhilde rose from

where she lay and pleadingly spoke to her father, asking pardon for her

disobedience and begging for some mercy and tenderness. At last, when

she found that, though he still loved her as dearly as ever, he was

firm in his decision, she asked only one favor of him—a last one—that

he should place a circle of flame about the rock where she was to be

laid asleep, flame so fierce and high that only a brave man might come

through it and awaken her.

Wotan consented, and, overcome by his love for her, drew her into his

arms in a last, sad embrace. He bade her farewell with a tenderness

that comforted her even then, and, stooping, kissed her long and

lovingly.

Her eyes closed. Her head sank back against his shoulder. Laying her on

a rock that made a rude couch, he placed her shield on her arm and her

spear at her side. He looked down with deepest sorrow on the face of

this, his most beautiful child, the War Goddess, and then, raising his

spear, commanded Logi to light a ring of fire about the rock.

Great billows of flame spread from left to right, and glowed in a

brilliant circle about the sleeping goddess, casting a dim glare on her

figure, and lighting up the quiet night-sky.

Standing in the red firelight, Wotan once more stretched out his spear

in a spell, and pronounced these words:

“Only he who fears not my spear can pass through this fiery bar.”

And, so saying, he passed from out the charmed circle and left behind

him the Walküre in her long, fire-watched sleep, to be broken only by

one who feared not even the spear of Wotan, the king of the gods.

[Music: The Sleep of the Walküre]

Part III

SIEGFRIED

[Music: Motif of Mime’s Meditation]

PRELUDE

When Sieglinde ran into the woods with the pieces of the broken sword,

Nothung, she took shelter in a cave where a wicked old dwarf lived

alone. There a little boy was born. But Sieglinde had never thoroughly

recovered from the shock of her husband’s death. The way through the

woods had been difficult, and she had endured great hardships; so one

day she called the Dwarf to her and gave him the broken sword, telling

him to keep it for her son until he grew old enough to have a weapon of

his own, and she told the Dwarf that she was Sieglinde, and that her

husband had been Siegmund, the Volsung, and she finally said that she

wanted the child to be named Siegfried; then she sank back and died.

And so Siegfried, who was a very little baby then, never, really, saw

either his father or mother.

The only father he knew, as he grew older, was the Dwarf, who was none

other than Mime, Alberich’s half-brother. And he could not help knowing

that Mime was wicked and sly, though the Dwarf pretended to love his

foster-son, and tried to arouse some love in return.

Now, perhaps, you wonder, if Mime was so wicked, why he took care of

the boy. I will tell you.

Mime, like every one else, wanted the Rhinegold, and could not get

it, for Fafner, the Dragon, guarded it by night and day at Hate

Hole. And being as sly and evil-minded as the rest of the Nibelungs,

he had concocted a plot by which he thought he could obtain it. He

hoped Siegfried, when he grew older, would slay Fafner with the sword

Nothung, and win the Rhinegold. You see he hoped to accomplish Fafner’s

death through Siegfried, just as Wotan had once tried to do through

Siegmund. Only, after Siegfried had attained the Gold, Mime hoped to be

able to poison him and steal from him the treasure.

But, to accomplish this, the broken sword must be mended, and this Mime

could not do. Its splintered edges baffled even him—clever smith as

he was. So he set to work forging other swords, and trying to fashion

a blade keen enough to satisfy the boy-Volsung, and also to kill the

Dragon at Hate Hole. But every weapon he made Siegfried broke into

pieces, and demanded a stronger and still stronger sword, until Mime

was in despair.

It angered him terribly, too, that Siegfried, more by instinct than

anything else, knew how wicked his heart was, and how full of bad,

cruel thoughts. The little, dark Nibelung could not understand how

the boy, beautiful as the sun, golden-haired and keen-eyed, strong of

limb and true of heart, loved to roam in the wide forests all the day,

merrily blowing his silver horn and making friends with the woodland

creatures, only returning to Mime’s cave at night. He could not realize

the pleasure that the soft forest voices gave to the youth just growing

into manhood; how he loved the wolves and bears better than the

cringing, evil-eyed, horrible little Dwarf in the cave at home—the only

home he knew.

As for Siegfried, the only thing he wondered at was that he ever went

back to the cave at all. Why did he not roam away forever into the

forest, search out that far, strange place called the world, that

really seemed as if it must be a different universe from the one in

which he lived? He could not tell. He only knew that a strange,

irresistible something seemed to draw him back to Mime’s side every

night—a something he could not explain or even understand. Meanwhile

time passed.

[Music: Motif of Forest Life, sometimes called Motif of Love Life]

[Music: Motif of the Forging of Nothung

“Nothung! Nothung! Notable Sword!”]

CHAPTER I

SIEGFRIED AND MIME

The cave was a dark one, but it was not altogether a bad place in

which to live. It was as lofty as a stately cathedral, and the Dwarf’s

forge, built on one side, lent a fitful red light and a little warmth

to the dim, cold atmosphere. Skins of animals gave it a semblance of

comfort; and, indeed, to a wild creature like Siegfried, it would have

been a most desirable home had it not been for the continual presence

of Mime. On the day on which I will open my story, Mime was sitting

on a low stool trying to fashion a sword which would not break in the

hands of the impetuous young Volsung, who, at that particular moment,

was, as usual, out in the woods with his friends, the wild beasts. As

he hammered, Mime grumbled crossly because he had to work forever with

swords that seemed of no use to the crazy boy, who insisted on smashing

them all, and racing off to the woods, merely demanding as he went a

better and a stronger weapon.

“There is a blade that he could not break,” muttered the Nibelung, as

he worked. “Nothung he would find firm in his hands, but I cannot weld

the splinters. Ah! if I could, I should be well repaid.” He paused, and

then went on, mysteriously murmuring to himself:

“Fafner, the great, wicked worm! Well guards he the Rhinegold. Only

Siegfried can overthrow him. This can only be done by Nothung, I feel

sure. And, alas! I cannot shape Nothung, the sword.”

He began to hammer once more, grumbling continually because Siegfried

insisted that he should make swords, and snarling with rage because

every weapon he forged fell to pieces in the boy’s strong hands.

Suddenly, from without, came a clear, merry voice, shouting a blithe

“Hoyho!” and the next moment in came Siegfried himself, leading a great

bear, which he had harnessed with a bit of rope.

“Ask the foolish smith if he has finished the sword, Bruin!” he cried

to the bear, and, holding back the great creature firmly, he pretended

to chase Mime, who, springing behind the anvil, cried, savagely:

“Take him away! I don’t want the bear! I have done my best with your

sword.”

“Good!” laughed the boy. “Good-bye, Bruin; run away,” and he freed the

great creature, sending him lumbering off into the woods again.

Then, turning to the trembling Nibelung, he again asked for the sword,

and Mime handed it to him. The young Volsung took it into his hands

quickly, scorn on his handsome face and anger in his eyes. He was

dressed in a wild forest costume of wolf-skins, and his yellow hair

curled over his shoulders. He, indeed, made a great contrast to Mime,

and one could not wonder that they did not get on well together.

“What a toy!” he cried out. “Do you call this a sword?” and, striking

it on the anvil, he broke the blade into a hundred slivers, and then

burst into a rage with the smith, who had pretended to give him a sword

fit for battle, and had shaped him so foolish a switch, as he called

it. And finally, thoroughly out of breath, he flung himself upon the

stone couch at one side, and not all Mime’s coaxings could appease his

anger. He finally confessed that he did not know why he ever returned

to the cave, because, he said frankly, he could not help detesting the

Dwarf, and was much happier when away from him. And then he broke into

a passionate description of the wood-life he loved so well; the mating

of the birds in the spring-time, and the way they loved and helped each

other; the care that the mother deer lavished upon her little ones; the

tenderness among all the forest creatures that seemed so beautiful and

mysterious to him.

“I learned watching them,” said Siegfried, almost sorrowfully, “what

love must be. Mime, where is she whom _I_ may call mother?”

“Nonsense!” said Mime, and tried to draw Siegfried’s mind away from

the dangerous topic; for he had never told him anything about his

parents, always calling him his own son. And he feared the boy’s anger

if he should ever know that he had been deceived.

But, thoroughly aroused, the young Volsung fiercely demanded the names

of his father and mother, declaring that he was far too unlike Mime

to be his son. At last the Nibelung confessed the truth, and told him

the story of his mother’s death, and of how she had left her child in

his care. And, when the boy asked for proof, he slowly crept away, to

return with the broken sword Nothung, the mending of which was so hard

a riddle even to his sly brain.

Wildly excited, Siegfried commanded him to work at it anew and do his

best to weld the pieces; and, with a shout of delight and hope, he

went merrily away into the woods, leaving Mime in saddest, deepest

perplexity.

Despairing, he murmured at the hopelessness of the task, which his

rather unruly young charge had set him, and was sitting, a picture of

discouragement and misery, when from the dark woods came a stranger

clad as a wanderer, and bearing a great spear. He advanced to the door

of the cave and asked in slow, grave tones for rest and shelter. Mime

was at first frightened, then angry, and finally refused to harbor the

strange guest, until the Wanderer made the following proposal: Mime was

to ask him three questions, and if they were not correctly answered

the host should have the privilege of cutting off his guest’s head. To

this Mime consented, and, after a little thought, thus chose his first

question:

“Tell me what is the race down in the earth’s depths?”

And the Wanderer made answer: “In the earth’s depths dwell the

Nibelungs. Nibelheim is their land. Once they were ruled by Black

Alberich, who owned a magic Ring by which he possessed untold wealth.

What is the next question?”

Again Mime pondered.

“Now, Wanderer, since you know so much of the earth’s depths,” he said,

“tell me what is the race that dwells upon its surface?”

“The giants dwell upon its surface. Two of them, Fasolt and Fafner,

fought for Black Alberich’s hoard. Fafner guards it now as a dragon.

Put your third question!”

“What race dwells in the sky above?” demanded Mime.

And the Wanderer answered, majestically:

“The gods dwell above in Walhalla. Their King is Wotan, who owns a

spear made of the World-Ash. With that spear he rules the world.”

And, as he spoke, Wotan, the Wanderer, struck the earth with the haft

he held, and a peal of thunder crashed suddenly out upon the silence.

As Mime cowered, terror-stricken, recognizing his guest, the Wanderer

again spoke.

He said it was only fair that he should have the same right he had

given to Mime, and declared that he should ask three questions with the

privilege of cutting off the Nibelung’s head if they were not answered

aright.

“Tell me, O Dwarf,” he began, “what was that race which Wotan loved,

and yet treated harshly?”

“The Volsungs,” answered Mime, partially recovering from his terror.

“Siegmund and Sieglinde were descended from the race. Siegfried is

their son—the strongest Volsung who ever lived.”

“Well answered!” said the Wanderer. “Now listen and reply! A sly

Nibelung watches Siegfried, knowing that he is fated to kill Fafner,

the Dragon. What sword must he use to kill him?”

“Nothung!” cried Mime, eagerly. “Nothung is the name of the

sword. Siegmund once drew it from a great tree. It was broken by

the spear of Wotan. Now a clever smith”—and he rubbed his hands

gleefully—“understands all this, and he hoards well the splinters,

knowing that with these alone can Siegfried kill the Dragon.”

The Wanderer burst out into laughter.

“But who will mend the sword?” he asked.

Mime sprang to his feet in despair, filled with terror and rage; for

that was the one question he could not answer—that was his riddle, his

everlasting mystery.

Quietly Wotan rose from the hearth where he had been sitting.

“I gave you three chances to ask me the question which I have now asked

you. Foolishly, you let them all slip by. Listen while I answer it!

_Only he who has never felt fear can forge Nothung anew._”

He strode to the door of the cave, and there paused, looking back.

“Guard well your head, O Dwarf! I leave it to him who knows not fear.”

Smiling quietly, the Wanderer disappeared in the wood’s depths, and

thunder and lightning followed him as he went.

Mime was left—puzzled, despairing, terror-stricken. His vivid

imagination began to conjure up before him visions of Fafner, the

Dragon, and he had fallen behind the anvil, so great was his fear, when

Siegfried came hastily in, asking once more for the sword.

Mime, creeping out from behind the anvil, could not at once collect his

scattered wits, and merely muttered:

“_Only he who has never felt fear can forge Nothung anew._ My wits are

too wise for that job.”

Finally, as Siegfried demanded why he had not worked at the sword, he

said, slowly:

“I was fearing for your sake.”

“_Fearing!_” said Siegfried. “What do you mean by fearing?”

Mime described the tremblings, shudderings, and quakings aroused by

fear, and Siegfried remarked, as he finished:

“All that must seem very queer. I rather think I should like to feel

all that—but how shall I learn?”

Mime, delighted, told him of Fafner, and said that the Dragon would

teach him, or any one else, the art of fearing, and ended by promising

to lead him to Hate Hole the next day.

“Does the world lie that way?” asked the boy.

“To Hate Hole it is close at hand,” responded the wicked little

Nibelung, beginning to feel rapture glow in his heart.

But, when Siegfried again demanded the sword, the smith fell once more

into despair, wailing that he could not shape it, that only one who

knew not fear could forge it anew.

Straight to the hearth sprang the strong young Volsung with the

splinters of Nothung.

“My father’s blade will I forge!” he cried; and he began to move about

merrily, brightening the fire and hunting for the file with which to

work on the broken blade.

Mime watched him with wondering eyes. So swiftly and well did he work

that even the clever smith could not understand. And, as he dragged at

the rope of the bellows and blew up the fire in the forge, this is the

song that Siegfried sang:

“Nothung, Nothung, notable sword!

Who did thy bright steel shiver?

To shreds I have shattered the noble blade,

In the pot I shall melt each sliver.

“Oho, oho, aha, aha, oho!

Bellows blow,

Brighten the glow!

“Far in the woodlands wild and fair,

’Mid the thickets, a tree felled I;

I have burned the brown ash into coal,

On the hearth I have piled it high.

“Oho, oho, aha, aha, oho!

Bellows blow,

Brighten the glow!

“The coal from the tree how bravely it flames!

The fire how fierce to see!

It sends its wild sparks scattering far,

And the steel shreds it smelts for me.

“Oho, oho, aha, aha, oho!

Bellows blow,

Brighten the glow!”

[Illustration: SIEGFRIED AT THE FORGE]

Meanwhile Mime was busy about something, too. He was preparing a poison

for Siegfried, which he did not intend to give him until after he had

slain the Dragon. Round, round the cave capered the Dwarf, filled with

delight at the pleasant prospect he saw before him.

At last the sword was finished, and Siegfried fitted it into its

handle. It was mended anew.

Waving it aloft, he broke into a new verse of his song:

“Nothung, Nothung, new and young!

I have given thee life and might!

Dead and desolate hast thou lain,

Now leapest thou fearless and bright.

Show now thy sheen to the cowards all,

Shatter deceit, and on falsehood fall.”

He sprang to the anvil and swung the blade high in the air.

“See, Mime, so serves Siegfried’s sword!” he shouted, exultantly.

Down came the flashing steel, and the anvil was shattered in pieces.

Mime sank to the ground in terror, but, holding his father’s sword

above his head, and filled with absolute joy and triumph, stood young

Siegfried—he who had never felt fear, and who had forged Nothung anew.

[Music: Siegfried Motif]

[Music: Motif of the Niebelungs’ Hate]

[Music: Siegfried’s Horn-call]

CHAPTER II

HATE HOLE

To Hate Hole, in the dark time before dawn, came the Wanderer, and

found Alberich waiting and watching near the entrance. The Dwarf was

fearfully enraged at the sight of the old god, whom he hated with all

the strength of his wicked Nibelung soul. He burst into a torrent of

abuse and anger as Wotan drew near, speaking of the broken promise of

the giants and the deceit by which the Gold had been obtained from the

Nibelungs, and again threatening the downfall of the gods when the Ring

should come back to his hands. The Wanderer answered quietly that a

hero was even then drawing near through the woods—a hero fated to kill

Fafner and obtain the Gold; and, with hidden sarcasm, he bade the Dwarf

attempt to use the youth for his own ends.

The King God believed in the workings of Fate. The Norns wove

continually, and all that they wove came to pass. No one could change

the histories wound into their golden cord, until the Dusk of the Gods

had come, when they also would, in the Last Twilight, be gone forever.

So, feeling as he did, it mattered very little whom he aided, whom he

harmed. He even went so far as to arouse Fafner for Alberich, and ask

him to give the Dwarf the Ring. The old Dragon snarled and yawned and

went to sleep again. The Wanderer turned to the Nibelung, with a great

laugh.

“Listen!” he said. “Remember, O Alberich, what I say. All things work

in nature’s course. You can alter nothing.”

And, so saying, he vanished in the dark woods, and a faint, pale

flicker of lightning shot through the forest as he went. Alberich crept

hastily into a crevice in the rocks on one side, and the dawn broke

just as two figures came into the little green glade by Hate Hole.

The figures were those of Siegfried and Mime; for the Nibelung, true to

his word, had led the boy to the place where he was to learn to fear.

“If you do not hastily discover fear here, my dear boy, you never will

anywhere,” said the Dwarf, with a chuckle. And he described at great

length the means which Fafner would use to teach the art, saying that

the Dragon’s breath was fire, and his twisting tail strong enough to

crush any hero. But Siegfried merely laughed, and said that he would

find the great worm’s heart and strike Nothung into that; and then

he bade Mime be gone. The Nibelung crept away out of sight among the

trees, and as he went he muttered, in an exasperated undertone:

“Fafner and Siegfried! Siegfried and Fafner! Oh, that each might kill

the other!”

The boy, left alone, sat under a linden-tree, looking up through the

branches. At first Mime’s figure pervaded his brain, and he could not

help remembering the horrible little creature. But, after a while,

thoughts of his mother crept in—very vague and formless thoughts—for

this forest youth had never in his life seen a woman. Leaning back, he

gave himself up to the enchantment of the summer-day, dreaming boyish

dreams, and listening to the forest voices all around him.

Have you ever sat in a great, green wood and watched the soft

flickering shadows from the little leaves overhead dance back and forth

on the moss? Have you heard the great surge of music made of a thousand

tiny sounds, the hum of little, unseen insects, the ripple of far-away

brooks, the faint sigh of the wind in the tall reeds, the rustling

of the trees, the melodies that seemed made by the touch of some

master-hand on a great harp? That was what Siegfried saw and heard that

summer day when he lay under the linden-tree and dreamed day-dreams.

After a while a little bird began to sing in the tree above him, and

after listening for a moment, and wondering whether it brought him a

message from his mother, he resolved to try to imitate it, remembering

that Mime had once said that some people were able to talk with the

birds. So he fashioned a flute out of a reed and tried to play upon

it the melody that the bird sang. Finally, however, he gave it up in

despair, and instead, as he began to feel lonely, he blew a loud blast

on his horn—to bring him a friend, he said to himself.

[Illustration: THE DEATH OF THE DRAGON]

And what sort of a friend do you think it brought him?

Well, it waked Fafner, the monster worm; and he dragged his huge scaly

body to the door of the cave and peered out, and you may fancy like

what sort of a friend he looked.

Siegfried burst out into laughter when he saw him.

“At last!” he cried, merrily. “My call has brought me something truly

lovely!”

“What is that?” growled Fafner, glaring at him as though he were a

small insect of some sort.

“Hey! You can talk, can you?” cried Siegfried. “Being so wise, you

should be able to teach me how to fear. I have come for that.”

Fafner laughed, and showed his teeth, bidding the boy come and be eaten.

“I come, growler!” said the young Volsung; and, drawing his sword, he

sprang boldly at the great, hideous creature at the cave’s opening.

Fafner reared to receive him, and the combat began. It was fierce, but

not very long, for the boy was strong and Nothung was sharp, and soon

Alberich’s spell had again worked its misery; and, indeed, it could be

said of the dying Dragon that his death was sad—his life had been a

failure.

Before he died he told Siegfried to beware of Mime, and then spoke

slowly and sadly of the race of giants that had come to an end.

“Siegfried,” he began once more—but he never finished, poor old Dragon;

for, just at the word, he rolled over and died. And that was the end of

the race of giants.

Stooping down, the young warrior drew his sword from out the Dragon’s

heart. In so doing, a drop of blood fell on his hand. It burned like

the cruellest fire. He raised it quickly to his mouth to relieve

the smarting; and, as the blood touched his lips, a strange thing

happened—he could understand the language of birds. Yes, as the same

little singer that he had heard before began to twitter, he could

understand what it was saying to him.

“Hey! Siegfried will have now the Nibelung’s hoard! He will find the

hoard in the hole. The Tarnhelm would aid him through wonderful deeds;

but the Ring would give him might over the world.”

With a laugh and a word of thanks to the little singer, the boy stepped

into the cave to look for the treasure. At the same minute Mime crept

near from behind the clump of bushes. Alberich sprang out from his

rocky crevice, and the two little Nibelungs met, snarling, capering,

and making faces with rage.

Each claimed the Ring, and called the other names, and each proved

himself a marvel in wickedness and greed, and they were nearing a point

when blows were not far off when the hero himself stepped out from the

cave with the Tarnhelm thrust into his belt, and the Rhinegold Ring

upon his finger. The dwarfs hastened out of sight.

The heaped-up hoard of the Nibelungs, Siegfried had left, for he knew

little of its use, and he cared nothing for wealth. Indeed, both Helm

and Ring he had taken only because the bird had so advised him. He

could not fancy what good either of them would do him.

“Hey! Siegfried has now the Helm and the Ring!” sang the wood-bird in

the tree. “Trust not in Mime! The Dragon’s blood will tell Siegfried

what the treacherous Dwarf really means.”

At this point, Mime himself appeared, smiling and bowing, and holding

in his hands a horn of wine for Siegfried. He said that it would

refresh the boy after his labors, but we know that it was poisoned.

Thanks to the Dragon’s blood, Siegfried knew it too, and read all the

cruel thoughts that were passing through Mime’s brain, and, in a burst

of anger, he finally raised his sword and killed the treacherous Dwarf

with one blow.

So that was the end of the Nibelung Mime, the cleverest smith, they

say, that ever lived in the world—even though he could not fashion

Nothung, the sword. From a black crevice in the rocks came Alberich’s

laugh, loud and mocking—the echo of his own wicked thoughts.

Siegfried turned away wearily, and, seating himself under the linden,

listened for the bird’s song again. As it did not come at once, he

looked up into the branches and spoke:

“You seem very happy, flying among your brothers and sisters, birdie.

But I am all alone. I have no brothers nor sisters, and my father and

mother are both dead. Tell me where I may find a loving friend. I have

called one so often, but none ever comes.” He sighed. “Sing now, sing,”

he begged; and again the bird’s twitter sounded from among the leaves

above him.

“Hey! Siegfried has slain now the wicked Dwarf. I know where he’ll find

a glorious bride. On a rock she sleeps amid fire. If he passed through

the blaze and awakened her, Brünnhilde would then be his.”

Wild with excitement and joy, Siegfried sprang to his feet and asked

if he would really be able to do this.

“Brünnhilde is won only by him who knows not fear,” said the wood-bird,

and flew off before him, guiding him through the woods.

In a transport of joy Siegfried followed, and, shouting with delight,

he began his journey to the far-away rock in its circle of flame, where

the Walküre, in her long penance of sleep, waited for the hero brave

enough to pass through the fire and awaken her.

[Music: Song of the Wood-Bird

“Hey! Siegfried has slain now the wicked dwarf!

I know where he’ll find a glorious bride.”]

[Music: Motif of the Wanderer]

[Music: Erda Motif]

CHAPTER III

THE MOUNTAIN PASS

A wild storm was raging among the mountains. Great winds swept down

from the high peaks and up from the valleys and crashed roaring through

the woods. The thunder rumbled, and flashes of blue lightning shot

across the dark sky. The heart of the tempest seemed to be at a rocky

pass just below the path that led up to the Walküres’ rock.

Here, before a huge black cleft in the side of the mountain, stood the

Wanderer, the wild storm all about him. With outstretched spear he was

singing a strange chant, an awakening song, down into the black chasm

before him; singing it to the wise woman of the world, Erda, the Earth

Witch.

He called her by name, and bade her rise from her sleep and speak with

him; and, as he chanted, a faint blue light glowed in the chasm, and

Erda rose slowly from the black depths. Frost seemed to cling to her

garments, and light gleamed all about her. Her face wore the same look

of mystery as when she came so many years before to warn Wotan against

the Ring.

In slow, dreamy tones she asked what the Wanderer wished, and why he

had aroused her from her slumber of wisdom. He answered that he had

come to ask her to prophesy once more; to tell him the wonders that she

had dreamed.

“I sleep and dream!” answered the Earth Goddess. “I dream and search

for wisdom. But, while I sleep, the Norns are awake. They weave their

rope and spin. Why do you not seek them and ask them your questions?”

The Wanderer answered that they could only weave the histories of the

world, but that she, in her wisdom, could, perhaps, tell him how to

avert coming ill. But Erda shook her head dreamily, as though in a

trance, and answered that she could tell him nothing; that the ways of

the world bewildered her, and that she longed to return into her dark

chasm and dream once more.

But Wotan restrained her. He told her of the Walküre’s disobedience and

his own wrath. He spoke of the sorrow and grief that weighed heavily

on his mind, of his forebodings, and that the Dusk of the Gods seemed

nearer and nearer. And, after asking again for counsel, in vain,

he said that he had grown to feel very little dread of the Dusk of

the Gods. It was destiny, and he almost longed for it. And he spoke

tenderly of the Volsung, who was even then drawing near to pass through

the flame and free the Walküre from her chains of sleep.

When she was awakened, Wotan said—gifted with the power of prophecy for

a moment—she would, by some deed, release the world from the sadness

that it had labored under for so long, and she would expiate the old

sin of the stealing of the Gold that was the beginning of the end of

the Golden Age.

“Then sleep once more!” said the Wanderer. “Dream and foresee the end!

Away, Erda—all-fearing, all-sorrowing; away to eternal sleep!”

Slowly the Goddess of the Earth slipped down into the darkness, and the

blue light faded away.

The storm had ceased. Only faint, distant rumbles of thunder sounded

in the high hills; faint, shivering winds crept through the moaning

forest-trees, and a little light stole over the mountain pass from the

rising moon.

From the depths of the forest came Siegfried, staring about him and

looking in vain for his small feathered guide.

It had vanished, and he concluded, after a moment, that he had better

go on alone, find his way to the fire-circle without a guide, and

awaken the sleeping maiden. He started up the pass; but, suddenly, a

voice said slowly close beside him:

“Where are you going, boy?”

He turned and saw the Wanderer.

“Perhaps he can tell me the way,” thought Siegfried; and, aloud, he

answered: “I am seeking for a rock surrounded by fire. A woman sleeps

there whom I will wake.”

The Wanderer asked him who suggested such an idea to him, and

questioned him closely as to his life and deeds.

Siegfried answered simply and frankly, until, when he spoke of his

good sword, the Wanderer burst into a loud peal of laughter.

“Why do you laugh at me?” asked the boy. “Listen, old questioner! Tell

me the way, or, if you cannot do that, say nothing at all,” for he was

in a thoroughly bad humor, and in the woods he had never been taught to

accord old age much honor. So he strode up to the Wanderer and demanded

that he should tell him the way, threatening to serve him like Mime if

he insisted on barring the pass. For Wotan was standing directly before

the rocky way, and, as Siegfried was in great haste, it exasperated him.

“You will not tell me, then?” he said, finally. “Then get out of my

way! I will find the rock for myself. My little bird-friend showed me

in which direction the slumbering woman lies.”

“The bird!” said Wotan, wrathfully. “It fled to save its life. The

King-Ravens barred its way.”

For the god had sent his two great birds to turn back the little guide,

just as he himself intended to attempt to turn back Siegfried.

He had said in his spell, when he left Brünnhilde sleeping on the rock:

“Only one who fears not my spear can pass through the fire bar.” Now,

this must be the test. Would this strong, beautiful boy recoil before

the haft made of the World-Ash, or would the Dusk of the Gods come

through human courage, overthrowing the might of the gods?

The Wanderer stretched out his great spear, the spear which had strange

figures upon it representing Law and Knowledge; the spear which was

typical of the wisdom and the power of the gods; the spear upon which

Nothung, the sword, had once been shattered.

“The weapon you swing,” said the Wanderer, “was once shivered upon this

haft. It will again snap on the Eternal Spear.”

Siegfried drew his sword.

“Then you are my father’s enemy!” he cried. “Then you broke his

defence! Stretch out your spear! My sword shall break it in pieces!”

And a great peal of thunder crashed among the hills as Nothung broke

the Eternal Spear with which Wotan had ruled the world.

The old god stooped and gathered up the broken pieces of his once

mighty haft, and, with slow steps, passed out of sight in the forest

depths. The Dusk of the Gods seemed, indeed, at hand.

As Siegfried stood gazing after his retreating figure, he suddenly

became conscious of a great glare that seemed to grow brighter and

brighter every moment. Looking up the pass before him, he beheld great

billows of flame rolling about a high peak—billows that seemed to surge

down towards him as though defying him to conquer them.

“Ha! Wonderful glow!” shouted Siegfried. “In fire will I bathe! In fire

will I find my bride!”

And blowing a long, clear call on his silver horn, he sprang into

the sea of flame, and passed up the steep, fiery way that led to the

Walküres’ rock.

[Music: Love Motif]

[Music: Motif of Siegfried the Protector]

CHAPTER IV

THE WALKÜRES’ ROCK

The fire rolled and surged about him, the great red flames twisted

around him, and in many colors the vistas opened here and there like

rainbow avenues. For the colors in fire are more beautiful than those

in an opal.

As he passed up the steep way, and trampled the flames and beat them

back, laughing at their scorching heat, they began to burn lower and

sank into a narrow, bright circle of fire behind him; unobtrusive and

not at all fierce, just, in fact, what they had been until a hero drew

near to pass through them. Then they had done their best to keep him

from their fair, sleeping captive; but they were conquered, the wild,

bright flames; and they died down to almost nothing as the Volsung,

still blowing a merry call on his horn, sprang up the rocks to the

summit of the mountain.

It was quiet and calm there, full of deep peace and silence. It seemed

as if even the trees and flowers were asleep. No sound broke the

stillness, no leaf moved or insect darted. It was as though Nature were

laying her finger on her lip and saying, “Hush—hush! This place is

enchanted.”

It was broad day, and the blue sky, reaching overhead, seemed to smile

down on the young hero as he stood gazing wonderingly about him.

On one side stretched the dark wood, reaching down the

mountain-side—the wood into which his mother had run, bearing the

splinters of Nothung, so many years before. As he looked into the

dark depths he was amazed to see a war-horse asleep under the trees.

It was Grani, who had fallen under the same spell as his mistress.

As Siegfried took a step forward, he suddenly stopped short in

overpowering surprise. For before him, upon a rock, lay a figure clad

in brightest steel, with shield and spear and helmet gleaming in the

sun.

“Is it a warrior?” thought the young Volsung, drawing near—for Mime

had described to him the bright armor the great heroes wore in battle.

“Perhaps,” thought Siegfried, as he bent over the sleeper, “he would

rest better if his helmet were loosened.” And he unfastened it

carefully and took it off. Masses of golden curling hair gleamed like

sunny clouds about the fair face of the Walküre.

“Ah, how beautiful!” cried Siegfried, softly. “The face is like that of

the sun smiling between mists.”

He bent down still lower.

“How heavily he breathes! I would better open his armor,” said the

boy. Drawing his sword, he cut off the mail in which the sleeper was

arrayed. When the last ring was loosened and he had lifted off the

suit of mail-armor, he started erect, filled with a strange, wonderful

feeling that he had never known before. The sleeping Walküre, no longer

dressed in steel like a warrior, but in long, white, womanly robes, was

so marvellous and beautiful that this lion-hearted young Volsung felt

fear at last in the presence of the first woman he had ever seen.

Timidly he drew near, wondering how he should arouse her.

“Awaken, beautiful woman!” he cried, tremulously. But she did not hear.

At last he bent over her and kissed her.

Brünnhilde opened her eyes.

Starting up, she lifted both arms towards the sky, and cried, in glad

though solemn tones,

“Hail, O sun! Hail, O light! Hail, O glorious day! Long was my sleep—I

am awakened! Where is the hero who awakes me?”

The young Volsung, drawing timidly near, answered that it was he who

had come through the fire and awakened her, and that his name was

Siegfried; and he said, too, that, as she had first aroused fear in his

heart, she must bring his courage back to him. Passionately, he told

her that he loved her; but Brünnhilde could not remember that she was

no longer a Walküre, and at first she did not want to be a woman and a

mortal’s wife—however great that mortal might be.

But, after a time, with a sudden great rush of passion, she felt in

some strange way that she cared no longer for the gods and their glory,

and loved only Siegfried, and longed to serve him and be his wife.

So she promised to marry him, and she said that the Norns might break

their rope of histories, for the Dusk of the Gods drew near.

She taught Siegfried many strange things and much wisdom—the wisdom of

the gods. And she gave him her weapons, forgot that she had ever been a

Walküre, and loved him with all her heart.

[Music: Motif of Peace]

Part IV

THE DUSK OF THE GODS, OR _GÖTTERDÄMMERUNG_

[Music: Motif of the World-Ash-Tree]

PRELUDE

Holding in his hand his broken spear, the king of the gods wended his

way to Walhalla. He sent forth stanch messengers to hew the World-Ash

into a thousand pieces and pile them high about the gods’ palace. Then

he assembled round him his heroes and the Walküres and the rest of the

divinities, and sat in silence awaiting the Dusk of the Gods.

All the gods, far and wide, knew that the Last Twilight was impending;

and fate relentlessly led all things to the end. To the Walküres’ rock

came the Norns in the gray of dawn to spin. From hand to hand passed

the golden cord. Each told a history in gloomy, chanting measures.

The oldest Norn sang of the days when the World-Ash was green and the

Fountain of Wisdom purled softly in the shadow of the wide branches.

She sang of Wotan’s coming to the spring and drinking; of the tearing

of the limb from the World-Ash; of the withering of the great tree. Her

song ceased. She flung the cord to her sister.

The second Norn wound slowly as she sang. Her tale was of the making of

the great spear with which Wotan had ruled the world until one stronger

than the gods had shivered the haft and overpowered the Ruler. She sang

of how Wotan had now ordered that the World-Ash should be broken and

piled about Walhalla. She paused, and the youngest Norn took the rope.

She sang of the bright palace where Wotan sat among the gods and

heroes, with the great fagots from the World-Ash heaped around him. She

sang that, when these fagots should be lighted and Walhalla burned, the

Dusk of the Gods would come.

They sang of many strange events—these Norns—events of the past, of the

present, of the future. They sang of the circle of fire lit by Logi

about the rock. They sang of the Rhinegold stolen by Alberich; they

sang long and sadly of the gods and their king.

“The web is tangled,” said the first Norn.

“Alberich’s spell tears at the strands,” said the second, and flung it

to the third.

[Illustration: BRÜNNHILDE ON THE WALKÜRES’ ROCK]

“I cannot reach the rope—it is too short,” said the youngest, putting

out her hand.

The cord snapped. It had stretched across the past, but it could not

touch the future. It was, indeed, too short.

“It breaks!” wailed the Norns, crouching in dread, as the faint light

of day appeared.

“At an end is our wisdom!” they murmured in chorus, and wound the

broken bits of the rope about their gray-shrouded bodies; then fled

like mist into the earth, down to their mother, Erda, the all-wise one,

she who had first prophesied the Dusk of the Gods.

* * * * *

When she had taught him all the wisdom that she knew, and given him all

she had, Brünnhilde bade her hero go forth into the world and win fame

and honor by great deeds. He must journey to the far lands peopled by

brave men and high heroes and prove his courage and his strength. She

would wait for him patiently, and he would come back to her when he had

made all men know and honor him.

She gave him Grani, her stanch war-horse, and he placed on her finger

as a parting love-gift the beautiful bright Ring that he had won at

Hate Hole, and then he bade her farewell, and blithely passed down the

mountain-side, blowing a clear, merry blast on his horn.

Brünnhilde stood on the Walküres’ rock and gazed yearningly after him,

and the young hero went forth into far lands to know men and do great

deeds, and find at last that strange place called the world.

[Music: Motif of Brünnhilde]

[Music: Motif of the Gibichungs]

[Music: Motif of Hagen]

CHAPTER I

THE HALL OF THE GIBICHUNGS

On the banks of the river Rhine there lived a great warrior named

Gunther, who was one of a valiant race called Gibichungs. He was the

head of a great tribe of kinsmen and vassals, and his lands were wide

and his halls spacious. His sister, Gutrune, was a maiden very fair

and sweet to look upon, as beautiful as her brother was brave. They

were both generous and noble, and would have done nothing but good all

their lives had it not been for the evil influence of their wicked

half-brother Hagen, the son of Alberich, the Nibelung. When their

father, the brave Gibich, had died, their mother, Grimhilde, had wedded

the Nibelung, and after a while had died herself, leaving wild, dark

Hagen as a brother to Gunther and Gutrune.

He was a sinister and gloomy warrior, with gleaming black eyes and

blood that seemed of ice, for never did his cheek flush or his lip

redden. Pale he was and cold, dark-haired and sad, and his heart was

black and cruel. He, too, was working to obtain the Rhinegold.

One day Gunther, sitting on a high throne beside his sister, asked

Hagen what greater wealth could belong to the Gibichungs; what deed

their chief could do that would aid the good fortune of the race and

its vassals.

Hagen answered that it would be fitting for the head of the Gibichungs

to wed, and he craftily told Gunther of the fire-encircled rock where

dwelt the fair maiden, Brünnhilde. The fire could only be conquered, he

said, by Siegfried, the Volsung, who would make a fitting husband for

Gutrune.

Now, Hagen knew that Siegfried had already won the Walküre; but he was

laying a plot, and the plot was wicked and deep. He told Gunther that

Siegfried would go through the fire and bring Brünnhilde to the Rhine

Chief if he could be given a magic-potion—a potion that would make him

love Gutrune.

While they spoke of these things, a horn was heard, in the distance

at first, but coming nearer and nearer. Soon a boat came down the

river Rhine—a wide barge—holding a horse and a tall man in bright

armor. Siegfried, in his travels through the world, had heard of the

Gibichungs, and had come to see the great Rhine Chief, Gunther. As the

boat touched the shore, he sprang from it, and hailed the warrior, in

loud tones, asking if he would be friend or enemy. In answer, Gunther

said that his house, his lands, his people were all at the service of

the hero whose fame had reached even the hall of the Gibichungs; and

Siegfried offered the strength of his arm and the might of his sword

for Gunther’s defence and aid at all times.

So they made a vow, promising to remain true to each other, as heroes

and brave men should.

“I have heard that you hold the Nibelungs’ hoard,” said Hagen, when

Gutrune, at a sign from him, had left the hall, and the three warriors

were alone.

“I left it in the cavern,” said Siegfried. “I cared nothing for the

Gold. This is all I took”—and he showed the Tarnhelm. “What is its

use—do you know?”

“It is the most artful of all the Nibelung’s work,” said Hagen. “It

will change you to whatever shape you will, and carry you to the

farthest lands in a moment, if it is your wish. Did you take any more

of the hoard?”

Siegfried answered that he had carried away a Ring, but that it was now

worn by a beautiful woman.

Even as he spoke, Gutrune, the fair lady of the Gibichungs, came out

from her room at one side of the hall, bearing a drinking-horn, which

she offered to Siegfried. It was customary in those days that a maiden

should offer wine to a guest coming to the house of her race. So

Siegfried, without a thought, lifted the horn and drank the mixture,

saying softly to himself: “Brünnhilde, I drink to you!”

But, alas! it was not wine that was in the drinking-horn, but the

love-potion—the terrible magic potion—which, as it touched the hero’s

lips, laid a cloud upon his memory and a fire within his heart, so that

he straightway forgot Brünnhilde and loved only Gutrune, the lady of

the Gibichungs.

[Illustration: GUTRUNE AND SIEGFRIED]

As he gazed passionately upon her, she turned away, filled, perhaps,

with momentary regret for what she had done, and left the hall in

silence.

When she had gone, Siegfried stood looking after her for a moment, and

then, arousing himself from his reverie, turned to Gunther, asking if

he were married.

The Rhine Chief replied that he had never wed, because only one bride

would satisfy him, and she was out of reach of even his valor; for she

was surrounded by fire, and only he who could pass through the blaze

could win her.

Merrily, Siegfried replied that he would go through the flame and bring

the bride to Gunther if he might have in payment Gutrune for his wife.

And the two heroes went through a ceremony, very binding in those days,

which was called the Oath of Brotherhood. It meant that they must

remain as faithful to each other as though they were really brothers,

and that should one prove false to his vow the other would have the

right to kill him.

Then the two entered the boat and went away down the Rhine, Siegfried

to take Gunther’s shape, with the aid of the Tarnhelm, and go through

the fire to win the maiden; Gunther to wait on the banks of the Rhine

until Siegfried brought him the bride, and then took his own shape once

more.

Hagen, left alone in the hall, mused deeply as night drew near.

“Siegfried, unknowing, brings his own bride to the Rhine. _He brings

me the Ring!_” He paused, and then continued, in tones of bitter

scorn: “Little as I deem you all, you brave partners and happy

companions—small as you are, and as I hold your natures—you still may

serve the need of the Nibelung’s son!”

[Music: Motif of the Love-Potion]

[Music: Motif of the Magic-fire Circle]