CHAPTER VI—WORMS AND THE NIBELUNGENLIED

Worms is celebrated as the locality of the Nibelungenlied and the

epic of Walthar of Aquitaine. But it has other claims to fame. Before

entering on the consideration of Germany’s greatest epic we will recount

several of the lesser legends of the locality.

The Rose Garden: A Tale of Dietrich of Bern

Dietrich of Bern is the King Arthur of German story. Like his prototype

of Britain, he has become the central figure of innumerable medieval

tales and epics, a model of chivalry and martial prowess, distinguished

everywhere by high deeds and mighty feats of arms, and in not a few

cases displacing the rightful hero of still older myths, which thus

became grafted on to the Dietrich legends. Originally he was a bona-fide

historical personage, Theodoric the Ostrogoth, and as such gained

a widespread popularity among his people. His historical character,

however, was soon lost in the maze of legendary lore which surrounded

his name, and which, as time went on, ascribed to him feats ever more

wildly heroic. Among the various traditions there is one relating to the

Rhenish town of Worms which calls for inclusion here as much on account

of its intrinsic merit as because of its undoubted popularity. The

legend of the Rose Garden of Worms is a quaint and fanciful tale,

and even the circumstance that it ends with the death of several good

knights and true does not rob it of a certain humorous quality it

possesses.

By the time Dietrich had reached the prime of his adventurous life—so

runs the story—he had gathered a considerable company of doughty

paladins at his court—he formed, in fact, a kind of Round Table—and the

knights who composed it were as eager as their lord to seek fresh fields

wherein to display their prowess, and were second only to him in skill

and valour. Among them were numbered such illustrious warriors as

Herbrand, his son Hildebrand, Eckehart, Wolfhart, and Amelung.

On one occasion, as Dietrich was seated at table with his followers, he

vowed that no court in Christendom could boast of such warriors as he

could muster. The assembled knights greeted the assertion with hearty

acclamations—all, that is, save the old warrior Herbrand, and he was

silent. Dietrich looked at him in surprise.

“Hast thou nothing to say, Herbrand?” he asked.

“Thinkest thou to find better knights than these?”—indicating his

followers with a wave of his hand.

Herbrand seemed somewhat reluctant to uphold his tacit objection to

Dietrich’s claim. “Ay,” he said at length, “there are such warriors to

be found.”

“And where may we seek such paragons?” inquired the king, none too well

pleased.

“In the town of Worms,” replied the old knight, “there lies a wondrous

rose garden, of great extent, where the queen and her ladies take their

pleasure. None save these may enter its precincts unless the queen give

him leave, and that the sacred boundaries may not be overstepped twelve

warriors are set to guard the garth. Such is their strength and courage

that none has ever succeeded in passing them, whatever his skill and

renown.”

“But wherefore should one seek to pass the guard?” asked a young knight.

“Is there a prize to be won, then?”

“Truly,” sighed old Herbrand, “I would not give a hair of my head for

the prize. ’Tis but a crown of roses and a kiss from one of the queen’s

ladies; though it is said, indeed, that they are as lovely as women may

be.”

“Are there no fair maids in Bern?” cried the warriors indignantly. “Must

we go to the Rhine for them?”

“For myself,” said Dietrich, “I care little for the reward; yet methinks

that for the honour and glory I would e’en meet these doughty warriors,

and peradventure overcome them. Who will follow me to Burgundy?”

As with one voice his knights responded to his appeal, and he chose

eight from among them to accompany him on his quest. As there were still

but nine, including Dietrich himself, to meet the twelve guardians of

the Rose Garden, the king decided to send for three knights who were

absent from the court. At the suggestion of Hildebrand he selected

Rüdiger of Bechlarn, Dietleib of Styria, and Ilsan, who was brother

to Hildebrand and at that time a monk in the monastery of Munchenzell.

Rüdiger was margrave to King Etzel, and had to obtain his lord’s

permission to venture forth on the romantic undertaking; Dietleib’s

father strongly recommended that the quest be abandoned, though the

youth himself was as eager as any to accompany Dietrich; while as for

Ilsan, he found it especially difficult to obtain leave of absence, for,

naturally, his abbot deemed the enterprise a strange one for a monk who

had fled all earthly delights. However, all difficulties were eventually

overcome, and when the party was ready for departure Rüdiger was sent

on an embassy to King Gibich at Worms, to prepare him for their coming.

Gibich gave his ready consent to the proposed trial of strength,

whereupon the warriors set out for the Rhine to see whether they might

not win a kiss and a garland from some fair lady.

An imposing array did the knights of the Rose Garden make as they

awaited the approach of the strangers, but no less imposing were

Dietrich and his warriors. Each chose an opponent and immediately

engaged in a fierce hand-to-hand struggle, which was to end disastrously

for more than one brave knight. The first to dispatch his antagonist

was Wolfhart, who submitted to being crowned with a rose-wreath, but

disdained to accept the rest of the reward. The monk, who was the next

victor, took the roses and kissed the maiden heartily. But alas! a

bristly beard covered his chin, and the maid was left ruefully

rubbing her pouting lips. One by one Dietrich’s knights overcame their

adversaries, some of whom were slain and some wounded. Toward nightfall

a truce was called, and Dietrich and his company set out to return to

Bern, well satisfied with having disproved the assertion of Herbrand

that there were better warriors in the world than Dietrich and his noble

company.

The Devil’s Vineyard

There is a curious legend told to account for the excellent quality

of the wine of Worms. An old nobleman who at one time lived in that

neighbourhood was in the habit of drinking more of the Rhenish wine than

was good for him. In every other respect he was a most worthy man, kind,

generous, and pious.

His piety, in an age when such qualities were rare, roused the ire of

the Devil, who determined to bring about his fall, and as the old man’s

love of wine was his only serious weakness, it was through this that the

Fiend set himself to compass the nobleman’s destruction.

The Devil therefore disguised himself as a strolling musician and made

the acquaintance of the old man. The latter set before him some of the

wine of the country, extolling meanwhile its rare qualities. The guest

seemed not at all impressed by the recital, but spoke of a wine which he

had tasted in the South and which far surpassed any other vintage. The

nobleman was all curiosity. The stranger talked of the wonderful wine

with feigned reluctance, and at length his host promised to give him

anything he should ask if only he would fetch him some of the wine.

Satan promised to plant a vineyard in Worms, asking in exchange the soul

of his host, to be forfeited at the end of a fixed period.

To this the old man consented, and the strolling musician planted a

vineyard which sprang up as though by magic. When the first vintage

was produced it was found to be delicious beyond the dreams of the

old nobleman, who was indeed a connoisseur in wines. In his delight he

christened the wine Liebfrauenmilch, signifying ‘Milk of our Blessed

Lady.’ The Devil was furious at this reference to the Holy Virgin, but

he consoled himself with the thought that in due course the man’s soul

would be his. But the Virgin herself was pleased with the christening

of the vineyard, and rather sorry for the foolish old nobleman who

had bartered his soul for the Devil’s wine. When, therefore, the time

arrived for the Evil One to claim his fee, she sent her angels to drive

him away, and thus he was robbed of his prey.

The old man, having learned the danger of treating with the Devil, now

built a chapel to the Virgin in his vineyard. He lived for a long time

to enjoy the luscious wine, under the protection of the saints, and

never again did he make a compact with Satan.

Now, if anyone requires a proof of this marvellous story, is there not

the Liebfrauenmilch, most delicious of wines to convince him of its

truth?

The Maiden’s Caprice

In the town of Worms there stands an old manor, built in the style of

the Renaissance and known as the Wampolder Hof. At one time it belonged

to the lord of Wampold, a wealthy noble of Mainz, who had appointed as

castellan a kinsman of his, himself a nobleman, though landless and

poor and no longer able to uphold his former dignities. In his youth the

keeper had lived a gay and careless life, but now he was old and infirm

and cared no longer for worldly vanities. His sole pride was his young

daughter, a bewitching maiden who had more lovers than one could readily

count, and who smiled upon them all impartially. With so many lovelorn

youths at her beck and call it is hardly surprising that she should grow

exacting and capricious, but this, as usually happens, only made them

love her the more.

There was one among her suitors, however, for whom she cherished a real

affection. Handsome, cultured, and, like herself, of noble birth, he

was, notwithstanding his poverty, by far the most eligible of the

youths who sought her in marriage, and the castellan readily granted his

consent to their betrothal. So for a time everything seemed to indicate

happiness in store for the young couple.

Yet the maiden remained as capricious as ever. On Walpurgis-night, when

a party of lads and lasses were gathered in the Wampolder Hof, and tales

of witches and witchcraft were being told in hushed tones, she conceived

a wild scheme to test her lover’s affection: she bade him go to the

cross-roads at midnight, watch the procession of witches, and return to

tell her what he saw. The awed company protested vigorously against the

proposed test, but the girl persisted, and at last her lover, seeing

that she was already piqued at his refusal, laughingly set out for the

bewitched spot, convinced that no harm would befall him.

Meantime the company in the manor anxiously awaited his return. One

o’clock came, then two—three; still there was no sign of him. Glances of

horror and pity were cast at the castellan’s daughter, who now wrung her

hands in futile grief. At length a few braver spirits volunteered to

go in search of their comrade, but no trace of him could they find. His

widowed mother, of whom he had been the only son, cursed the maid

who was the cause of his ghastly fate, and not long afterward the

castellan’s daughter lost her reason and died. On Walpurgis-nights she

may still be heard in Worms calling for her lost lover, whom she is

destined never to find.

The fate of the youth remains uncertain. The most popular account

is that he was torn limb from limb by the infuriated witches and his

remains scattered to the winds. But some, less superstitious than

their neighbours, declared that he had been murdered by his rivals, the

disappointed suitors, and that his body had been cast into the Rhine—for

not long afterward a corpse, which might have been that of the missing

youth, was drawn from the river by fishermen.

The Nibelungenlied

The greatest Rhine story of all is that wondrous German Iliad, the

Nibelungenlied, for it is on the banks of the Rhine in the ancient city

of Worms that its action for the most part takes place. The earliest

actual form of the epic is referred to the first part of the thirteenth

century, but it is probable that a Latin original founded on ballads

or folk-songs was in use about the middle or latter end of the tenth

century. The work, despite many medieval interpolations and the

manifest liberties of generations of bards and minnesingers, bears the

unmistakable stamp of a great antiquity. A whole literature has grown

up around this mighty epic of old Germanic life, and men of vast

scholarship and literary acumen have made it a veritable battle-ground

of conflicting theories, one contending for its mythical genesis,

another proving to his satisfaction that it is founded upon historic

fact, whilst others dispute hotly as to its Germanic or Scandinavian

origin.

So numerous are the conflicting opinions concerning the origin of the

Nibelungenlied that it is extremely difficult to present to the reader

a reasoned examination of the whole without entering rather deeply into

philological and mythical considerations of considerable complexity.

We shall therefore confine ourselves to the main points of these

controversies and refrain from entering upon the more puzzling bypaths

which are only to be trodden by the ‘Senior Wranglers’ of the study, as

they have been called.

Its Original Form

In the beginning of the nineteenth century Karl Lachmann, a philologist

of some repute, put forward the theory that the poem was made up of a

number of distinct ballads or lays, and he eliminated from it all parts

which appeared to him to be interpolations. This reduced the whole to

twenty lays, which he considered the work of twenty separate minstrels;

but if certain ballads relating to episodes in the Nibelungenlied once

existed in Germany it is the spirit of these more than the matter

which is incorporated into the great epic. In medieval times, when

the Nibelungenlied story was popular, minnesingers and harpers, in an

attempt to please their audiences, would cast about for fresh incidents

to introduce into the story. Popular as was the tale, even a medieval

audience could tire of the oft-repeated exploits of its dramatis

personae, and the minstrel, dependent upon their goodwill for bed and

board, would be quick to note when the tale fell flat. Accordingly

he would attempt to infuse into it some new incident or series of

incidents, culled from other stories more often than not self-created.

Such an interpolation is probably to be noted in the presence of

Dietrich of Bern, otherwise Theodoric the Ostrogoth, at the court of

Etzel or Attila. To say nothing of the probability of anachronism,

geographical conditions are not a little outraged in the adoption of

this incident, but the question arose who was to worst the mighty Hagen,

whose sombre figure dominates in its gloomy grandeur the latter part of

the saga. It would not do for any Hunnish champion to vie successfully

with the Burgundian hero, but it would be no disgrace for him to be

beaten by Dietrich, the greatest champion of antiquity, who, in fact,

is more than once dragged into the pages of romance for the purpose of

administering an honourable defeat to a hitherto unconquered champion.

We can thus see how novel and subsidiary passages might attach

themselves to the epic.

But a day came when the minnesingers of Germany felt that it behoved

them to fix once and for all time the shape of the Lay of the Nibelungs.

Indeed, not one, but several poets laboured at this task. That they

worked with materials immediately to their hand is seen from the

circumstance that we have proof of a Low German account, and a Rhenish

version which was evidently moulded into its present shape by an

Austrian or Tyrolese craftsman—a singer well versed in court poetry and

courtly etiquette. The date when the Nibelungenlied received its latest

form was probably about the end of the twelfth century, and this last

version was the immediate source of our present manuscripts. The date

of the earliest known manuscript of the Nibelungenlied is comparatively

late. We possess in all twenty-eight more or less complete manuscripts

preserved in thirty-one fragments, fifteen of which date from the

thirteenth and fourteenth centuries.

Its Fragmentary Nature

Even a surface examination is sufficient to testify to the fragmentary

nature of the Nibelungenlied. We can discern through the apparent unity

of texture of the work as we now possess it the patchwork where scribe

or minstrel has interpolated this incident or joined together these

passages to secure the necessary unity of narrative. Moreover, in none

of the several versions of the Siegfried epic do we get the ‘whole

story.’ One supplements another. And while we shall follow the

Nibelungenlied itself as closely as possible we shall in part supplement

it from other kindred sources, taking care to indicate these where we

find it necessary to introduce them.

Kriemhild’s Dream

In the stately town of Worms, in Burgundy, dwelt the noble and beauteous

maiden Kriemhild, under the care of her mother Ute, and her brothers

Gunther, Gernot, and Giselher. Great was the splendour and state which

they maintained, and many and brave were the warriors who drank wine at

their board. Given to martial exercises were those men of might, and day

by day the courts of the palace rang to the clangor of sword-play

and manly sport. The wealth of the chiefs was boundless, and no such

magnificence as theirs was known in any German land, or in any land

beyond the German frontiers.

But with all this stateliness and splendour Kriemhild, the beautiful,

was unhappy. One night she had had an ominous dream. She dreamed that

she had tamed a falcon strong and fierce, a beauteous bird of great

might, but that while she gazed on it with pride and affection two great

eagles swooped from the sky and tore it to pieces before her very eyes.

Affected by this to an extent that seemed inexplicable, she related her

dream to her mother, Ute, a dame of great wisdom, who interpreted it as

foretelling for her a noble husband, “whom God protect, lest thou lose

him too early.” Kriemhild, in dread of the omen, desired to avert it by

remaining unwed, a course from which her mother attempted to dissuade

her, telling her that if ever she were destined to know heartfelt joy it

would be from a husband’s love.

Siegfried

Siegfried, of the Netherlands, son of Siegmund and Sieglind, a warrior

bold as he was young and comely, having heard of the great beauty

of Kriemhild, desired to visit Worms that he might see the far-famed

princess for himself. Until this time he had been wandering through

the world doing great deeds: he had won the sword and treasure of the

Nibelungs, had overcome their monarchs, had conquered a dwarf Alberich,

gaining possession of his cloak of darkness. Hagen, a mighty Burgundian

paladin (in a passage which is obviously adapted from another version

for the purpose of recounting Siegfried’s previous adventures), tells

how “he had slain a dragon and made himself invulnerable by bathing

in its blood. We must receive him graciously, and avoid making him our

enemy.” Siegfried sojourned at Worms for over a year, distinguishing

himself in all the martial exercises of the Burgundians and rendering

them splendid service in their wars against the Saxons and Danes. A year

passed without his having been allowed to meet Kriemhild, who in secret

cherished the utmost admiration for him. Chagrined at the treatment

meted out to him, he finally made up his mind to depart. But his hosts

did not desire to lose such a valuable ally, and brought about a meeting

between him and the lady of his dreams. The passage describing their

first sight of one another is full of the essence of romance.

We are told that Kriemhild appeared before his eyes as does the rosy

flush of dawn breaking from sombre clouds. As he beheld her his heart

was soothed and all his trouble vanished, for there stood she who had

cost him many a love-pang, her eyes sparkling with pleasure, brighter

than the rich jewels which covered her raiment, her cheeks suffused with

the blushes of maidenhood. No one had, he thought, ever seen so much

beauty before. As the silver moon obscures the light of the stars by its

superior splendour, so did Kriemhild obscure the beauty of the ladies

who surrounded her. When he beheld her each hero drew himself up more

proudly than ever and appeared as if ready to do battle for such a

paragon of beauty. She was preceded by chamberlains in rich attire,

but no ushers might keep back the knights from sight of her, and they

crowded about her to catch a glimpse of her face. Pleased and sad was

Siegfried, for, thought he, “How may I ever hope to win so peerless a

creature? The hope is a rash one. Better were I to forget her—but then,

alas, my heart would have ceased to beat, and I should be dead!” Pale

and red he grew. He recked not of his own great worth. For all there

agreed that so handsome a warrior had never come to the Rhineland, so

fair of body, so debonair was he.

The Wooing of Brunhild

Siegfried now resolved to win Kriemhild, and on Gunther’s asking him to

accompany him on an adventure the purpose of which is to gain the hand

of Queen Brunhild of Isenstein, he accepted on condition that on their

return he should be rewarded by the hand of his sister. To this Gunther

gave assent, and they set out, accompanied by Hagen and his brother

Dankwart. But the Nibelungenlied proper is silent regarding Siegfried’s

previous relations with Brunhild. In Scandinavian versions—such as the

Volsunga Saga, where this legend, originally a German one, is preserved

in its pagan form—Brunhild was a Valkyr, or war-maiden of Odin, who sent

her to sleep with a prick of a magic thorn and imprisoned her within

a circle of flame, through which Siegfried (in this version almost

certainly the god of nature, springtide, and the sun) broke, delivered

the captive, and took her as his bride, soon, however, departing from

her. In the Nibelungenlied this ancient myth is either presupposed or

intentionally omitted as unfitting for consumption by a Christianized

folk, but it is hinted that Brunhild had a previous claim upon

Siegfried’s affections.

Brunhild had made it a condition that the hero whom she would wed must

be able to overcome her in three trials of prowess, losing his head as

a penalty of failure. Siegfried, donning the magic cloak of invisibility

he had won from Alberich, king of the dwarfs, took Gunther’s place and

won the three trials for him, Gunther going through a pantomime of the

appropriate actions while Siegfried performed the feats. The passage

which tells of the encounter is curious. A great spear, heavy and keen,

was brought forth for Brunhild’s use. It was more a weapon for a hero

of might than for a maiden, but, unwieldy as it was, she was able to

brandish it as easily as if it had been a willow wand. Three and a half

weights of iron went to the making of this mighty spear, which scarce

three of her men could carry. Sore afraid was Gunther. Well did he wish

him safe in the Burgundian land. “Once back in Rhineland,” thought he,

“and I would not stir a foot’s distance to win any such war-maid.”

But up spake Dankwart, Hagen’s valiant brother: “Now is the day come on

which we must bid farewell to our lives. An ill journey has this been,

I trow, for in this land we shall perish at the hands of women. Oh, that

my brother Hagen and I had but our good swords here! Then would these

carles of Brunhild’s check their laughter. Without arms a man can do

nothing, but had I a blade in hand even Brunhild herself should die ere

harm came to our dear lord.”

This speech heard the warrior-maid. “Now put these heroes’ swords into

their hands,” she commanded, “and accoutre them in their mail.”

Right glad was Dankwart to feel iron in his hand once more and know its

weight upon his limbs. “Now I am ready for such play as they list,” he

cried. “Since we have arms, our lord is not yet conquered.”

Into the ring of contest mighty men bore a great stone. Twelve of them

it took to carry it, so ponderous it was. Woe were they of Burgundy for

their lord at sight of the same.

Brunhild advanced on Gunther, brandishing her spear. Siegfried was by

his side and touched him lightly to give him confidence, but Gunther

knew not it was he and marvelled, for no one saw him there.

“Who hath touched me?” said he.

“’Tis I, Siegfried,” replied his friend. “Be of good cheer and fear

not the maiden. Give me thy shield and mark well what I say. Make thou

motions as if to guard and strike, and I will do the deeds. Above all

hearken to my whispered advice.”

Great was Gunther’s joy when he knew that Siegfried was by him. But

he had not long to marvel, for Brunhild was on him, her great spear in

hand, the light from its broad blade flashing in his eyes. She hurled

the spear at his shield. It passed through the iron as if it had been

silk and struck on the rings of Gunther’s armour. Both Gunther and

Siegfried staggered at the blow. But the latter, although bleeding from

the mouth with the shock of the thrown weapon, seized it, reversing the

point, and cast it at Brunhild with such dreadful might that when it

rang on her armour she was overthrown.

Right angry was Brunhild. But she weened that the blow was Gunther’s,

and respected him for his strength. Her anger, however, overcame her

esteem, and seizing the great stone which had been placed in the ring

of combat, she cast it from her twelve fathoms. Leaping after it, she

sprang farther than she had thrown it. Then went Gunther to the stone

and poised it while Siegfried threw it. He cast the stone farther than

Brunhild had done, and so great was his strength that he raised King

Gunther from the earth and leapt with him a greater distance than

Brunhild had leapt herself. Men saw Gunther throw and leap alone.

Red with anger grew Brunhild when she saw herself defeated. Loudly she

addressed her men.

“Ho, ye liegemen of mine,” she cried, “now are ye subject to Gunther the

King, for, behold, he has beaten me in the sports.”

The knights then acclaimed Gunther as the victor. By his own strength

of arm had he won the games, said they, and he in turn greeted them

lovingly. Brunhild came forward, took him by the hand, and granted to

him full power throughout her dominions. They proceeded to her palace

and Gunther’s warriors were now regaled with better cheer than before.

But Siegfried carefully concealed his magic cloak.

Coming to where Gunther and Brunhild sat, he said: “My lord, why do

you tarry? Why are the games of which Queen Brunhild doth speak not yet

begun? I long to see how they may be played.” He acted his part so well

that Brunhild really believed that he was not aware the games were over

and that she was the loser.

“Now, Sir Siegfried,” said she, “how comes it that you were not present

when the games, which Gunther has won, were being played?”

Hagen, fearing that Siegfried might blunder in his reply, took the

answer out of his mouth and said: “O Queen, the good knight Siegfried

was hard by the ship when Gunther won the games from you. Naught indeed

knew he of them.”

Siegfried now expressed great surprise that any man living had been able

to master the mighty war-maid. “Is it possible,” he exclaimed, “is it

possible, O Queen, that you have been vanquished at the sports in which

you excel so greatly? But I for one am glad, since now you needs must

follow us home to the Rhineland.”

“You are speedy of speech, Sir Siegfried,” replied Brunhild. “But there

is much to do ere yet I quit my lands. First must I inform my kindred

and vassals of this thing. Messengers must be sent to many of my kinsmen

ere I depart from Isenstein.”

With that she bade couriers ride to all quarters, bidding her kinsmen,

her friends, and her warriors come without delay to Isenstein. For

several days they arrived in troops: early and late they came, singly

and in companies. Then with a large escort Brunhild sailed across the

sea and up the Rhine to Worms.

Siegfried and Brunhild

It now became increasingly clear that Siegfried and Brunhild had had

affectionate relations in the past. [Indeed, in the Volsunga Saga, which

is an early version of the Nibelungenlied, we find Grimhild, the mother

of Gudrun (Kriemhild), administering to Sigurd (Siegfried) a magic

potion in order that he should forget about Brunhild.] On seeing

Siegfried and Kriemhild greet each other with a kiss, sadness and

jealousy wrung the heart of the war-maiden, and she evinced anything but

a wifely spirit toward her husband Gunther, whom, on the first night

of their wedded life, she wrestled with, defeated, and bound with her

girdle, afterward hanging him up by it on a peg in the wall! Next day he

appealed to Siegfried for assistance, and that night the hero donned his

magic cloak of invisibility, contended with Brunhild in the darkness,

and overcame her, she believing him to be Gunther, who was present

during the strife. But Siegfried was foolish enough to carry away her

ring and girdle, “for very haughtiness.” These he gave to Kriemhild, and

sore both of them rued it in after-time. Brunhild’s strength vanished

with her maidenhood and thenceforth she was as any other woman.

Siegfried and Kriemhild now departed to the capital of Santen, on the

Lower Rhine, and peace prevailed for ten years, until Brunhild persuaded

Gunther to invite them to a festival at Worms. She could not understand

how, if Siegfried was Gunther’s vassal, as Gunther had informed her, he

neither paid tribute nor rendered homage. The invitation was accepted

cordially enough. But Kriemhild and Brunhild quarrelled bitterly

regarding a matter of precedence as to who should first enter church,

and at the door of the minster of Worms there was an unseemly squabble.

Then Kriemhild taunted Brunhild with the fact that Siegfried had won

and deserted her, and displayed the girdle and ring as proof of what she

asserted.

Siegfried, confronted with Brunhild, denied that he had ever approached

her in any unseemly way, and he and Gunther attempted to make peace

between their wives. But all to no avail. A deadly feud had sprung up

between them, which was to end in woe for all. Hagen swore a great oath

that Siegfried should pay for the insult his wife had put upon Brunhild.

The Plot against Siegfried

Now, but four days after, news came to Gunther’s court that war was

declared against him. But this was merely a plot to draw Siegfried from

the court and compass his death. The heroes armed for war, among

them Siegfried. When Hagen bade farewell to Kriemhild she recommended

Siegfried to his care. Now, when Siegfried slew the dragon which guarded

the treasure of the Nibelungs, he bathed in its blood and became, like

Achilles, invulnerable, save at a spot where a linden leaf had fallen

between his shoulders as he bathed, and so prevented contact with the

potent stream. Hagen inquired of Kriemhild the whereabouts of this

vulnerable spot, pretending that he would guard Siegfried against

treachery in battle; and she, fully believing in his good faith, sewed a

silken cross upon Siegfried’s mantle to mark the place.

On the following morning Siegfried, with a thousand knights, took horse

and rode away, thinking to avenge his comrades. Hagen rode beside him

and carefully scanned his vesture. He did not fail to observe the mark,

and having done so, he dispatched two of his men with another message.

It was to the effect that the King might know that now his land would

remain at peace. This Siegfried was loath to hear, for he would have

done battle for his friends, and it was with difficulty that Gunther’s

vassals could hold him back. Then he rode to Gunther, who thanked him

warmly for having so quickly granted his prayer. Gunther assured him

that if need be he would at any time come to his aid, and that he held

him the most trusty of all his friends. He pretended to be so glad

that the threat of war was past that he suggested that they should ride

hunting to the Odenwald after the bear and the boar, as they had so

often done before. This was the counsel of the false Hagen.

It was arranged that they should start early for the greenwood, and

Gunther promised to lend Siegfried several dogs that knew the forest

ways well. Siegfried then hurried home to his wife, and when he had

departed Hagen and the King took counsel together. After they had

agreed upon the manner in which they would compass the destruction of

Siegfried, they communicated their plans to their comrades. Giselher and

Gernot would not take part in the hunt, but nevertheless they abstained

from warning Siegfried of his danger. For this, however, they paid

dearly in the end.

The morning dawned bright and clear, and away the warriors cantered with

a clatter of hoofs and a boasting of bugles.

Siegfried’s Farewell to Kriemhild

Before departing Siegfried had said farewell to Kriemhild, who, she knew

not why, was filled with dark forebodings.

“God grant I may see thee safe and well again,” said Siegfried. “Keep

thou a merry heart among thy kin until I return.”

Then Kriemhild thought on the secret she had betrayed to Hagen, but she

could not tell Siegfried of it. Sorely she wept, wishing that she had

never been born, and keen and deep was her grief.

“Husband,” she said, “go not to the hunt. A baleful dream I had last

night. You stood upon the heath and two wild boars approached. You fled,

but they pursued you and wounded you, and the blossoms under your feet

were red with blood. You behold my tears. Siegfried, I dread treachery.

Wot you not of some who cherish for us a deadly hate? I counsel you, I

beg you, dear lord, go not to the greenwood.”

Siegfried tried to laugh her fears away, “It is but for a few days that

I leave thee, beloved,” he said. “Who can bear me hate if I cherish none

against them? Thy brothers wish me well, nor have I offended them in any

wise.”

But Kriemhild would not be comforted. “Greatly do I dread this parting,”

she wailed, “for I dreamed another dream. You passed by two mountains,

and they rocked on their bases, fell, and buried you, so that I saw you

no more. Go not, for bitterly will I grieve if you depart.”

But with a laugh and a kiss Siegfried was gone. Leaping on his steed, he

rode off at a gallop. Nevermore was she to see him in life.

Into the gloomy forest, the abode of the bear, the wolf, and the wild

boar, plunged the knights in their lust of royal sport. Brilliant,

brave, and goodly of cheer was the company, and rich was their

entertainment. Many pack-horses laden with meats and wines accompanied

them, and the panniers on the backs of these bulged with flesh, fish,

and game, fitting for the table of a great king.

On a broad meadow fringing the greenwood they camped, near to the place

where they were to begin the hunt, and watchers were sent round the

camp, so that no one with a message of warning on his lips might win to

the ears of Siegfried.

Siegfried waxed restless, for he had come not to feast but to hunt, and

he desired to be home again with Kriemhild. “Ha, comrades,” he cried;

“who will into the forest with me and rouse the game?”

“Then,” said the crafty Hagen, “let us find who is the best sportsman.

Let us divide the huntsmen and the hounds so that each may ride alone

where he chooses; and great praise shall be to him who hunts the best

and bears off the palm.”

To this Siegfried agreed, and asked only for one hound that had been

well broken to the chase to accompany him.

This was granted. Then there came an old huntsman with a limehound and

led the sportsmen to where there was an abundance of game. Many beasts

were started and hunted to the death, as is ever the way with good

huntsmen.

Nothing that the limehound started could escape Siegfried. Swift was his

steed as the tempest, and whether it was bear or boar he soon came up

with it and slew it. Once he encountered a stark and mighty lion. Aiming

an arrow at the monster, he shot it through the heart. The forest rang

with acclaim at the deed.

Then there fell by his hand a buffalo, an elk, four grim aurochs, and a

bear, nor could deer or hind escape him, so swift and wight was he.

Anon he brought a wild boar to bay. The grisly beast charged him, but,

drawing his sword, Siegfried transfixed it with the shining blade.

“I pray thee, lord,” said the huntsman, “leave to us something living,

for in truth thy strong arm doth empty both mountain and forest.”

Merrily rang the noise of the chase in the greenwood that day. The hills

and the leafy aisles of the forest resounded with the shouts of the

hunters and the baying of dogs. In that hunting many a beast met its

death-day and great was the rivalry. But when the hunting was over and

the heroes met at the tryst-fire, they saw that Siegfried had proved

himself the greatest huntsmen of them all.

One by one they returned from the forest to the trysting-place, carrying

with them the shaggy fell of the bear, the bristly boar-skin, and the

grey pelt of the wolf. Meat abounded in that place, and the blast of a

horn announced to the hungry knights that the King was about to feast.

Said Siegfried’s huntsman to him: “I hear the blast of a horn bidding

us return to the trysting-place,” and raising his bugle to his lips, he

answered it.

Siegfried was about to leave the forest, ambling quietly on horseback

through the green ways, when he roused a mighty bear. The limehound was

slipped and the bear lumbered off, pursued by Siegfried and his men.

They dashed into a ravine, and here Siegfried thought to run the beast

down, but the sides were too steep and the knight could not approach it

on horseback. Lightly he sprang from his steed, and the bear, seeing

his approach, once more took flight. So swift, however, was Siegfried’s

pursuit that ere the heavy beast could elude him he had caught it by

its shaggy coat and had bound it in such a manner that it was harmless;

then, tying it across his horse’s back, he brought it to the tryst-fire

for pastime.

Proudly emerged Siegfried from the forest, and Gunther’s men, seeing

him coming, ran to hold his horse. When he had dismounted he dragged

the bear from his horse’s back and set it loose. Immediately the dogs

pursued it, and in its efforts to escape into the forest it dashed madly

through a band of scullions who were cooking by the great fire. There

was a clatter of iron pots, and burning brands were strewed about. Many

goodly dishes were spoiled. The King gave order to slip the hounds that

were on leash. Taking their bows and spears, the warriors set off

in chase of the bear—but they feared to shoot at it through fear of

wounding any among the great pack of dogs that hung upon its flanks. The

one man who could keep pace with the bear was Siegfried, who, coming up

with it, pierced it with his sword and laid it dead on the ground. Then,

lifting the carcass on his shoulders, he carried it back to the fire, to

the marvel of all present.

Then began the feasting. Rich meats were handed around, and all was

festive and gay. No suspicion had Siegfried that he was doomed, for his

heart was pure of all deceit. But the wine had not yet been brought from

the kitchen, whereat Sir Siegfried wondered.

Addressing Gunther, he said: “Why do not your men bring us wine? If this

is the manner in which you treat good hunters, certes, I will hunt no

more. Surely I have deserved better at your hands.”

And the false Gunther answered: “Blame me not, Siegfried, for the fault

is Hagen’s. Truly he would have us perish of thirst.”

“Dear master,” said Hagen of Trony, “the fault is mine—if fault it

be—for methought we were to hunt to-day at Spessart and thither did I

send the wine. If we go thirsty to-day, credit me I will have better

care another time.”

But Siegfried was athirst and said: “If wine lacks, then must we have

water. We should have camped nearer to the Rhine.”

The Slaying of Siegfried

And Hagen, perceiving his chance, replied: “I know of a cool spring

close at hand. If you will follow me I will lead you thither.”

Sore athirst was Siegfried, and starting up from his seat, he followed

Hagen. But the crafty schemer, desiring to draw him away from the

company so that none else would follow them, said to him as they were

setting out for the spring: “Men say, Siegfried, that none can keep pace

with you when you run. Let us see now.”

“That may easily be proved,” said Siegfried. “Let us run to the brook

for a wager, and see who wins there first. If I lose I will lay me

before you in the grass. Nay, I will more, for I will carry with me

spear, shield, and hunting gear.”

Then did he gird on his weapons, even to his quiver, while the others

stripped, and off they set. But Siegfried easily passed them and arrived

at the lime-tree where was the well. But he would not drink first for

courtesy, even although he was sore athirst.

Gunther came up, bent down to the water, and drank of the pure, cool

well. Siegfried then bent him to drink also. But the false Hagen,

carrying his bow and sword out of reach, sprang back and gripped the

hero’s mighty spear. Then looked he for the secret mark on his vesture

that Kriemhild had worked.

As Siegfried drank from the stream Hagen poised the great spear and

plunged it between the hero’s shoulders. Deeply did the blade pierce

through the spot where lay the secret mark, so that the blood spurted

out on the traitor’s garments. Hagen left the spear deep in Siegfried’s

heart and flew in grim haste from the place.

Though wounded to the death, Siegfried rose from the stream like a

maddened lion and cast about him for a weapon. But nothing came to his

hand but his shield. This he picked up from the water’s edge and ran

at Hagen, who might not escape him, for, sore wounded as he was, so

mightily did he smite that the shield well-nigh burst and the jewels

which adorned it flew in flinders. The blow rang across the meadow as

Hagen fell beneath the stroke.

It was Siegfried’s last blow. His countenance was already that of a dead

man. He could not stand upright. Down he crashed among the flowers;

fast flowed his blood; in his agony he began to upbraid those who had

contrived his death.

“Cowards and caitiffs,” he cried, “is this the price you pay me for my

fealty to you? Ill have you done by your friends, for sons of yours as

yet unborn will feel the weight of this deed. You have vented your spite

on my body; but for this dastard crime all good knights shall shun you.”

Now all surrounded him, and those that were true among them mourned for

him. Gunther also wept. But the dying man, turning to him, said: “Does

he weep for the evil from whom the evil cometh? Better for him that it

had remained undone, for mighty is his blame.”

Then said false Hagen: “What rue ye? Surely our care is past. Who will

now withstand us? Right glad am I that Siegfried is no more.”

Loud was Siegfried’s dole for Kriemhild. “Never was so foul a murder

done as thou hast done on me, O king,” he said to Gunther. “I saved thy

life and honour. But if thou canst show truth to any on earth, show it

to my dear wife, I beg of thee, for never had woman such woe for one she

loved.”

Painfully he writhed as they watched him, and as he became weaker he

spake prophetically.

“Greatly shall ye rue this deed in the days to come,” he groaned, “for

know, all of ye, that in slaying me ye have slain yourselves.”

Wet were the flowers with his blood. He struggled grimly with death, but

too deep had been the blow, and at last he spake no more.

They laid his body on a shield of ruddy gold and took counsel with one

another how they should hide that the deed had been done by Hagen.

“Sure have we fallen on evil days,” said many; “but let us all hide this

thing, and hold to one tale: that is, that as Siegfried rode alone in

the forest he was slain by robbers.”

“But,” said Hagen of Trony, “I will myself bear him back to Burgundy. It

is little concern of mine if Kriemhild weep.”

Kriemhild’s Grief

Great was the grief of Kriemhild when she learned of the murder of her

husband, whose body had been placed at her very door by the remorseless

Hagen. He and the rest of the Burgundians pretended that Siegfried had

been slain by bandits, but on their approach the wounds of Siegfried

commenced to bleed afresh in mute witness of treachery. Kriemhild

secretly vowed a terrible revenge and would not quit the land where

her beloved spouse was buried. For four years she spake never a word to

Gunther or Hagen, but sat silent and sad in a chamber near the minster

where Siegfried was buried. Gunther sent for the Nibelungen treasure for

the purpose of propitiating her, but she distributed it so freely

among Gunther’s dependents that Hagen conceived the suspicion that her

intention was to suborn them to her cause and foment rebellion within

the Burgundian dominions; therefore he seized it and sank it in the

Rhine, forcing Kriemhild’s brethren never to divulge its whereabouts.

It is a circumstance of some importance that when this treasure

enters the land of the Burgundians they take the name of Nibelungs,

as Siegfried was called Lord of the Nibelungs on first possessing the

hoard, and for this reason that part of the poem which commences with

the Burgundian acquirement of the treasure was formerly known as the

Nibelungen Not.

The confiscation of the treasure was another sharp wound to Kriemhild,

who appears to have bitterly cherished every hostile act committed

against her by her uncle Hagen and her brothers, and to have secretly

nursed her grievances throughout the remainder of her saddened

existence.

Kriemhild Marries Attila

Thirteen years after the death of Siegfried, Helche, wife of Attila,

or Etzel, King of the Huns, having died, that monarch was desirous

of marrying again, and dispatched his faithful councillor, Rüdiger,

Margrave of Bechlarn, to the Burgundian court to ask for the hand of

Kriemhild. Her brethren, only too anxious to be rid of her accusing

presence, gladly consented to the match, but Hagen had forebodings that

if she gained power she would wreak a dreadful vengeance on them all.

But he was overruled, and Rüdiger was permitted to interview Kriemhild.

At first she would not hear of the marriage, but when Rüdiger expressed

his surprise at the manner in which she was treated in her own country,

and hinted that if she were to wed with Etzel she would be guarded

against such insulting conduct, she consented. But first she made

Rüdiger swear to avenge her wrongs, and this he did lightly, thinking

it merely a woman’s whim which would pass away after marriage. She

accompanied Rüdiger to the court of Etzel, stopping at his castle of

Bechlarn, where dwelt his wife Gotelind and his daughter Dietlinde. The

journey to Vienna is described in detail. At length they met Etzel

at Tulna with twenty-four kings and princes in his train and a mighty

retinue, the greatest guest present being Dietrich of Bern, King of

the Goths, who with his band of Wolfings was sojourning at the court of

Etzel. The nuptials took place at Vienna amid great magnificence, but

through all Kriemhild sorrowed only for Siegfried and brooded long and

darkly on her schemes of vengeance.

Seven years passed, during which Kriemhild won the love of all Etzel’s

court. She bore the King a son, Ortlieb, and gained the confidence

and respect of his advisers. Another six years passed, and Kriemhild

believed that the time for vengeance had now arrived. To this end she

induced Etzel to invite her brethren and Hagen to his court at Vienna.

At first the Burgundians liked the hospitable message well, but

suspicion of it was sown in their minds by Hagen, who guessed that

treachery lurked beneath its honeyed words. In the end they accepted the

invitation and journeyed to the land of the Huns, a thousand and sixty

knights and nine thousand soldiers. On the way they encountered many ill

omens.

The Journey

Through Eastern Frankland rode Gunther’s men toward the river Main, led

by Hagen, for well he knew the way. All men wondered when they saw the

host, for never had any seen such lordly knights or such a rich and

noble retinue. Well might one see that these were princes. On the

twelfth day they came to the banks of the Danube, Hagen riding in the

van. He dismounted on the river’s sandy shore and tied his steed to a

tree. The river was swollen with rains and no boats were in sight. Now

the Nibelungs could not perceive how they were to win over the stream,

for it was broad and strong.

And Hagen rebuked the King, saying: “Ill be with you, lord. See ye not

that the river is swollen and its flood is mighty? Many a bold knight

shall we lose here to-day.”

“Not greatly do thy words help, Hagen,” spake the King. “Meeter were it

for thee to search for a ford, instead of wasting thy breath.”

But Hagen sneered back: “I am not yet weary of life, O king, and I wish

not to drown in these broad waves. Better that men should die by my

sword in Etzel’s land. Stay thou then by the water’s edge, whilst I seek

a ferryman along the stream.”

To and fro he sought a ferryman. Soon he heard a splash of water and

hearkened. In a spring not far off some women were bathing. Hagen spied

them and crept stealthily toward them. But they saw his approach and

went swiftly away. Hagen, approaching, seized their clothes.

Now these women were swan-maidens, or mermaids, and one of them,

Hadburg, spake to him. “Sir Hagen,” she said, “well wot I that ye wish

to find a ferry. Now give to us our garments and we will show you where

one is.” They breasted the waves like swans. Once more spake Hadburg:

“Safely will ye go to Etzel’s land and great honours will ye gain there;

aye, greater than hero ever rode to find.”

Right joyous was Hagen at this speech. Back he handed to the maidens

their weeds.

Then spake another mermaid, Sieglind: “Take warning from me, Hagen.

Believe not the word of mine aunt, for she has sore deceived thee.

Go not to Etzel’s land, for there you shall die. So turn again. Whoso

rideth onward hath taken death by the hand.”

“I heed not thy words,” said Hagen, “for how should it be that all of us

die there through the hate of anyone?”

“So must it be,” said Sieglind, “for none of you shall live, save the

King’s chaplain, who alone will come again safe and sound to Gunther’s

land.”

“Ye are wise wives,” laughed Hagen bitterly. “Well would Gunther and his

lords believe me should I tell him this rede. I pray thee, show us over

the stream.”

“So be it,” replied Sieglind; “since ye will not turn you from your

journey. See you yonder inn by the water’s side? There is the only ferry

over the river.”

At once Hagen made off. But Sieglind called after him: “Stay, Sir

Knight; credit me, you are too much in haste. For the lord of these

lands, who is called Else, and his brother, Knight Gelfrat, will make

it go hard with you an ye cross their dominions. Guard you carefully and

deal wisely with the ferryman, for he is liegeman unto Gelfrat, and if

he will not cross the river to you, call for him, and say thou art named

Amelrich, a hero of this land who left it some time agone.”

No more spake Hagen to the swan-maidens, but searching up the river

banks, he found an inn upon the farther shore. Loudly he called across

the flood. “Come for me, ferryman,” he said, “and I will bestow upon

thee an armlet of ruddy gold.”

Now the ferryman was a noble and did not care for service, and those who

helped him were as proud as he. They heard Hagen calling, but recked

not of it. Loudly did he call across the water, which resounded to his

cries. Then, his patience exhausted, he shouted:

“Come hither, for I am Amelrich, liegeman to Else, who left these lands

because of a great feud.” As he spake he raised his spear, on which was

an armlet of bright gold, cunningly fashioned.

The haughty ferryman took an oar and rowed across, but when he arrived

at the farther bank he spied not him who had cried for passage.

At last he saw Hagen, and in great anger said: “You may be called

Amelrich, but you are not like him whom I thought to be here, for he was

my brother. You have lied to me and there you may stay.”

Hagen attempted to impress the ferryman by kindness, but he refused to

listen to his words, telling the warrior that his lords had enemies,

wherefore he never conveyed strangers across the river. Hagen then

offered him gold, and so angry did the ferryman become that he struck at

the Nibelung with his rudder oar, which broke over Hagen’s head. But the

warrior smote him so fiercely with his sword that he struck his head off

and cast it on the ground. The skiff began to drift down the stream,

and Hagen, wading into the water, had much ado to secure it and bring it

back. With might and main he pulled, and in turning it the oar snapped

in his hand. He then floated down stream, where he found his

lords standing by the shore. They came down to meet him with many

questionings, but Gunther, espying the blood in the skiff, knew well

what fate the ferryman had met with.

Hagen then called to the footmen to lead the horses into the river that

they might swim across. All the trappings and baggage were placed in

the skiff, and Hagen, playing the steersman, ferried full many mighty

warriors into the unknown land. First went the knights, then the

men-at-arms, then followed nine thousand footmen. By no means was Hagen

idle on that day.

On a sudden he espied the king’s chaplain close by the chapel baggage,

leaning with his hands upon the relics, and recalling that the wise

women had told him that only this priest would return and none other of

the Nibelungs, he seized him by the middle and cast him from the skiff

into the Danube.

“Hold, Sir Hagen, hold!” cried his comrades. Giselher grew wroth; but

Hagen only smiled.

Then said Sir Gernot of Burgundy: “Hagen, what availeth you the

chaplain’s death? Wherefore have ye slain the priest?”

But the clerk struck out boldly, for he wished to save his life. But

this Hagen would not have and thrust him to the bottom. Once more he

came to the surface, and this time he was carried by the force of the

waves to the sandy shore. Then Hagen knew well that naught might avail

against the tidings which the mermaids had told him, that not a Nibelung

should return to Burgundy.

When the skiff had been unloaded of baggage and all the company had been

ferried across, Hagen broke it in pieces and cast it into the flood.

When asked wherefore he had done so, and how they were to return from

the land of the Huns back to the Rhine, Hagen said:

“Should we have a coward on this journey who would turn his back on the

Huns, when he cometh to this stream he will die a shameful death.”

In passing through Bavaria the Burgundians came into collision with

Gelfrat and his brother Else, and Gelfrat was slain. They were received

at Bechlarn by Rüdiger, who treated them most hospitably and showered

many gifts upon them, bestowing upon Gernot his favourite sword,

on Gunther a noble suit of armour, and on Hagen a famous shield. He

accompanied the strangers to the court of Etzel, where they were met

first of all by Dietrich of Bern, who warned them that Kriemhild

prayed daily for vengeance upon them for the murder of Siegfried. When

Kriemhild beheld Hagen, her archenemy, she wept. Hagen saw, and “bound

his helmet tighter.”

“We have not made a good journey to this feast,” he muttered.

Kriemhild’s Welcome

“Ye are welcome, nobles and knights,” said Kriemhild. “I greet you not

for your kinship. What bring ye me from Worms beyond the Rhine that

ye should be so welcome to me here? Where have ye put the Nibelung

treasure? It is mine as ye know full well, and ye should have brought it

me to Etzel’s court.”

Hagen replied that he had been ordered by his liege lords to sink it in

the Rhine, and there must it lie till doomsday.

At this Kriemhild grew wroth. Hagen went on to say that he had enough to

do to carry his shield and breastplate. The Queen, alarmed, desired that

all weapons should be placed in her charge, but to this Hagen demurred,

and said that it was too much honour for such a bounteous princess to

bear his shield and other arms to his lodging.

Kriemhild lamented, saying that they appeared to think that she planned

treachery against them; but to this Dietrich answered in great anger

that he had forewarned Gunther and his brothers of her treacherous

intentions. Kriemhild was greatly abashed at this, and without speaking

a word she left the company; but ere she went she darted furious glances

upon them, from which they well saw with what a dangerous foe they had

to deal. King Etzel then asked who Hagen might be, and was told his

name and lineage and that he was a fierce and grim warrior. Etzel then

recognized him as a warrior who had been a hostage with him along with

Walthar of Spain and who had done him yeoman service.

Events March

This last passage connects the Nibelungenlied with the Latin poem of

Walthar of Aquitaine. Indeed, the great German epic contains repeated

allusions to this work of the ninth or tenth century, which is dealt

with later in this book.

Events now march quickly. Kriemhild offered gold untold to him who would

slay Hagen, but although her enemy was within her grasp, so doughty was

the warrior and so terrible his appearance that none dared do battle

with him. A Hun was killed by accident in a tournament, but Etzel

protected his Burgundian guests. At length Blodelin was bribed by

Kriemhild to attack Dankwart with a thousand followers. Dankwart’s men

were all slain, but he himself made good his escape by fighting his way

through the closely packed Hunnish ranks. Dankwart rushed to the hall

where the Burgundians were feasting with the Huns, and in great wrath

acquainted Hagen with the treacherous attempt which had been made upon

his life.

“Haste ye, brother Hagen,” he cried, “for as ye sit there our knights

and squires lie slain in their chambers.”

“Who hath done this deed?” asked Hagen.

“Sir Blodelin with his carles. But he breathes no longer, for myself I

parted his head from his body.”

“If he died as a warrior, then it is well for him,” replied the grim

Hagen; “but, brother Dankwart, ye are red with blood.”

“’Tis but my weeds which ye see thus wet,” said Dankwart carelessly.

“The blood is that of other men, so many in sooth that I could not give

ye tale of the number.”

“Guard the door, brother,” said Hagen fiercely; “guard it yet so

that not a single Hun may escape. I will hold parley with these brave

warriors who have so foully slain defenceless men.”

“Well will I guard the doorway,” laughed Dankwart; “I shall play ye the

part of chamberlain, brother, in this great business.”

The Beginning of the Slaughter

Hagen, mortally incensed at the slaughter of the Burgundians by the

Huns, and wrongly suspecting Etzel of conspiracy in the affair, drew

his sword, and with one blow of the weapon smote off the head of young

Ortlieb, the son of Etzel and Kriemhild. Then began a slaughter grim and

great. The Huns fought at first in self-defence, but as they saw their

friends fall they laid on in good earnest and the combat became general.

At length Dietrich of Bern, as a neutral, intervened, and succeeded in

bringing about a half-truce, whereby Etzel, Kriemhild, and Rüdiger were

permitted to leave the hall, the remainder of Etzel’s attendants being

slaughtered like sheep. In great wrath Etzel and Kriemhild offered heavy

bribes to any who would slay Hagen. Several attempts were made, but

without avail; and the terrible conflict continued till nightfall,

when a truce was called. From his place of vantage in the hall Giselher

reproached his sister with her treachery, and Kriemhild offered to spare

her brothers if they would consent to give up Hagen. But this offer

they contemptuously refused, holding death preferable to such dishonour.

Kriemhild, in her bitter hate, set the hall on fire, and most of the

Burgundians perished in the conflagration. Kriemhild and the Huns were

astounded, however, when in the morning they discovered six hundred

of the Burgundians were still alive. The queen appealed to Rüdiger to

complete the slaughter, but he, aghast at the idea of attacking friends

whom he had sworn to protect, was about to refuse, when Kriemhild

reminded him of his oath to her. With sorrow he proceeded to fulfil his

promise, and Giselher, seeing his approach, imagined he came as an ally.

But Rüdiger promptly disillusioned him. The Burgundians were as loath

to attack Rüdiger as he them, and Hagen and he exchanged shields. The

combat recommenced, and great was the slaughter of the Burgundians,

until Gernot and Rüdiger came together and slew one another. At this,

Wolfhart, Dietrich of Bern’s lieutenant, led his men against the

Burgundians to avenge Rüdiger’s death, and Giselher and Wolfhart slew

one another. Volker and Dankwart were also slain. At length all were

dead save Gunther and Hagen, whom Dietrich accosted and whom he offered

to save. But this offer Hagen refused. Then the Lord of Bern grew wroth.

Dietrich Intervenes

Dietrich then donned his armour and was assisted to accoutre himself by

Hildebrand. He felt a heroic mood inspire him, a good sword was in

his hand, and a stout shield was on his arm, and with the faithful

Hildebrand he went boldly thence.

Hagen espied him coming and said: “Yonder I see Sir Dietrich. He desires

to join battle with us after his great sorrow. To-day shall we see to

whom must go the palm. I fear him not. Let him come on.”

This speech was not unheard of Dietrich and Hildebrand, for Hagen

came to where he found the hero leaning against the wall of the house.

Dietrich set his shield on the ground and in woeful tones said: “O king,

wherefore have ye treated me so? All my men are gone, I am bereft of all

good, Knight Rüdiger the brave and true is slain. Why have ye done these

things? Never should I have worked you such sorrow. Think on yourselves

and on your wrongs. Do ye not grieve for the death of your good kinsmen?

Ah, how I mourn the fall of Rüdiger! Whatsoever joy I have known in life

that have ye slain. It is not for me to sorrow if my kin be slain.”

“How so, Dietrich?” asked Hagen. “Did not your men come to this hall

armed from head to heel with intent to slay us?”

Then spake Dietrich of Bern. “This is fate’s work and not the doing of

man,” said the hero. “Gunther, thou hast fought well. Yield thee now

as hostage, no shame shall it be to thee. Thou shalt find me true and

faithful with thee.”

“Nay, God forbid,” cried Hagen; “I am still unfettered and we are only

two. Would ye have me yield me after such a strife?”

“Yet would I save thy life, brave and noble Hagen,” said Dietrich

earnestly. “Yield thee, I beg, and I will convoy thee safe home to

Rhineland.”

“Nay, cease to crave this thing,” replied Hagen angrily. “Such a tale

shall never be told of me. I see but two of ye, ye and Hildebrand.”

Hildebrand, addressing Hagen, then said that the hour would come when

he would gladly accept the truce his lord offered, but Hagen in reply

twitted Hildebrand with the manner in which he had fled from the hall.

Dietrich interrupted them, saying that it ill beseemed heroes to scold

like ancient beldams, and forbade Hildebrand to say more. Then, seeing

that Hagen was grim of mood, Dietrich snatched up his shield. A moment

later Hagen’s sword rang on his helm, but the Lord of Bern guarded him

well against the dreadful blows. Warily did he guard him against Hagen’s

mighty falchion Balmung. At last he dealt Hagen a wound deep and wide.

But he did not wish to slay him, desiring rather to have such a hero as

hostage. Casting away his shield, in his arms he gripped Hagen of Trony,

who, faint from loss of blood, was overthrown. At that Gunther began

to wail greatly. Dietrich then bound Hagen and led him to where stood

Kriemhild and gave him into her hand. Right merry was she at the sight

and blessed Dietrich, bowing low before him, telling him that he had

requited her of all her woes, and that she would serve him until death.

But Dietrich begged Hagen’s life of the Queen, telling her that he would

requite her of all that he had done against her. “Let him not suffer,”

said he, “because you see him stand there bound.” But she ordered that

Hagen be led away to durance.

Dietrich then went to where Gunther stood in the hall and engaged him

in strife. Loudly rang the swords as the two heroes circled in fight,

dealing mighty blows on each other’s helm, and men there had great

wonder how Sir Dietrich did not fall, so sorely angry was Gunther for

the loss of Hagen. But the King’s blood was seen to ooze through his

armourings, and as he grew fainter Dietrich overcame him as he had done

Hagen and bound him. Then was he too taken before Kriemhild, and once

again the noble Dietrich begged a life from the Queen. This she gladly

promised, but treachery was in her heart. Then went she to Hagen and

said to him that if he would return the Nibelungs’ treasure to her

he might still go home safe and sound to Burgundy. The grim champion

answered that she wasted her words, and that he had sworn an oath not

to show the hoard while any of his lords still lived. At that answer a

terrible thought entered the mind of Kriemhild, and without the least

compunction she ordered that her brother Gunther’s life be taken. They

struck off his head like that of a common malefactor, and by the hair

she carried it to the Knight of Trony. Full sorrowfully he gazed upon

it, then turning his eyes away from the haggard and distorted features,

he said to Kriemhild:

“Dead is the noble King of Burgundy, and Giselher, and Gernot also.

Now none knoweth of the treasure save me, and it shall ever be hid from

thee, thou fiend.”

The Death of Hagen and Kriemhild

Greatly wroth was Kriemhild when she heard that her stratagem had

come to naught. “Full ill have ye requited me, Sir Hagen,” she cried

fiercely, and drawing the sword of Siegfried from its sheath, she raised

it with both hands and struck off the Burgundian’s head.

Amazed and sorrowful was King Etzel when he saw this. “Alas,” cried he,

“that such a hero should die bound and by the hands of a woman. Here

lieth the best of knights that ever came to battle or bore a shield.

Sorely doth this deed grieve me, however much I was his foe.”

Then spake old Hildebrand, full of horror that such a thing had come to

pass, “Little shall it profit her that she hath slain him so foully,” he

cried; “whatever hap to me, yet will I avenge bold Hagen.”

With these words he rushed at Kriemhild. Loudly did she cry out, but

little did that avail her, for with one great stroke Hildebrand clove

her in twain. The victims of fate lay still. Sorely wept Dietrich and

Etzel. So ended the high feast in death and woe. More is not to be said.

Let the dead rest. Thus fell the Nibelungs, thus was accomplished the

fate of their house!

The place of origin of the Nibelungenlied is much disputed, a number of

scholars arguing for its Scandinavian genesis, but it may be said that

the consensus of opinion among modern students of the epic is that

it took its rise in Germany, along the banks of the Rhine, among the

Frankish division of the Teutonic folk. Place-names lend colour to this

assumption. Thus in the Odenwald we have a Siegfried Spring; a Brunhild

Bed is situated near Frankfort; there is a Hagen Well at Lorch, and the

Drachenfels, or Dragon’s Rock, is on the banks of the Rhine. Singularly

enough, however, if we desire a full survey of the Nibelungenlied story,

we have to supplement it from earlier versions in use among the peoples

of Scandinavia and Iceland. These are distinctly of a more simple and

early form than the German versions, and it is to be assumed that

they represent the original Nibelungenlied story, which was preserved

faithfully in the North, whereas the familiarity of its theme among the

Southern Teutons caused it to be altered again and again for the sake

of variety, until to some extent it lost its original outline. Moreover,

such poems as the Norse Volsunga Saga and Thidreks Saga, not to speak

of other and lesser epics, afford many details relating to the

Nibelungenlied which it does not contain in its present form. It may

be interesting to give a summary of the Volsunga Saga, which is a prose

paraphrase of the Edda Songs.

The Volsunga Saga

The epic deals with the history of the treasure of the Nibelungs, and

tells how a certain Hreithmar had it given him by the god Loki as

a weregild for the slaying of the former’s son, Otur or Otter, who

occasionally took the shape of that animal. Loki in his turn obtained

the ransom from the dwarf Andwari, who had stolen it from the river-gods

of the Rhine. The dwarf, incensed at losing the treasure, pronounced a

most dreadful curse upon it and its possessors, saying that it would be

the death of those who should get hold of it. Thus Hreithmar, its

first owner, was slain in his sleep by his son Fafnir, who carried the

treasure away to the Gnita Heath, where, having taken the form of a

dragon, he guarded it.

The treasure—and the curse—next passed into the keeping of Sigurd (the

Norse form of Siegfried), a descendant of the race of the Volsungs, a

house tracing its genealogy back to the god Woden. The full story of

Sigurd’s ancestry it is unnecessary to deal with here, as it has

little influence on the connexion of the story of the Volsungs with

the Nibelungenlied. Sigurd came under the tutelage of Regin, the son of

Hreithmar and brother of Fafnir, received the magic steed Grani from

the king, and then was requested by Regin to assist him in obtaining the

treasure guarded by Fafnir. After forging a sword for himself out of

the fragments of a blade left by his father Siegmund, he avenged his

father’s death and then set out to attack Fafnir. Meeting Woden, he was

advised by the god to dig a ditch in the dragon’s path. Encountering

Fafnir, he slew him and the dragon’s blood ran into the ditch, without

which he would have been drowned by the flood of gore from the monster.

As the dragon died he warned Sigurd against the treasure and its curse

and against Regin, who, he said, was planning Sigurd’s death.

When Regin saw that the dragon was quite dead, he crept from his

hiding-place and quaffed its blood. Then, cutting out the heart, he

begged Sigurd to roast it for him. In this operation Sigurd burnt his

fingers and instinctively thrust them in his mouth, thus tasting of the

dragon’s blood, whereupon he was surprised to find that he comprehended

the language of the birds. Hearkening intently to the strange, new

sounds, he learned that if he himself should eat the heart, then he

would be wiser than anyone in the world. The birds further betrayed

Regin’s evil intentions, and advised Sigurd to kill him. Seeing his

danger, Sigurd went to where Regin was and cut off his head and ate

Fafnir’s heart. Following once again the advice of the birds, he

brought the treasure from the cave and then journeyed to the mountain

Hindarfjall, where he rescued the sleeping Valkyr, Brynhild or Brunhild,

who had been pierced by the sleep-thorn of Woden and lay in slumber clad

in full armour within a castle, surrounded by a hedge of flame. Mounting

his horse Grani, Sigurd rode through the fiery obstacle to the gate

of the castle. He entered it, and, finding the maiden asleep, cut the

armour from her with his sword—for during her long slumber it had become

very tight upon her. Brunhild hailed him with joy, for she had vowed

never to marry a man who knew fear. She taught Sigurd much wisdom, and

finally they pledged their troth. He then departed, after promising to

remain faithful to her.

On his travels he arrived at the court of Giuki or Gibicho, a king whose

domains were situated on the Lower Rhine. Three sons had he, Gunnar,

Hogni, and Gutthorm, and a daughter Gudrun, a maiden of exquisite

beauty. His queen bore the name of Grimhild, and was deeply versed in

magical science, but was evil of nature.

They received Sigurd with much honour. Grimhild knew of his relations

with Brunhild, and gave him a potion which produced forgetfulness of the

war-maiden, so that he accepted the hand of Gudrun which Giuki offered

him. The marriage was celebrated with great splendour, and Sigurd

remained at Giuki’s court, much acclaimed for his deeds of skill and

valour.

Grimhild meanwhile urged upon her son Gunnar to sue for the hand of

Brunhild. He resolved to accept her advice and set out to visit her,

taking with him Sigurd and a few other friends. He first visited

Brunhild’s father Budli, and afterward her brother-in-law Heimir, from

whom he heard that Brunhild was free to choose the man she desired, but

that she would espouse no one who had not ridden through the hedge of

flame. They proceeded to Brunhild’s castle. Gunnar attempted to pierce

the flames, but was unable to do so even when seated on Sigurd’s horse,

for Grani would not stir, knowing well that it was not his master who

urged him on. At last they made use of a potion that had been given them

by Grimhild, and Sigurd, in the shape of Gunnar, rode through the wall

of fire. He explained to the war-maiden that he was the son of Giuki and

had come to claim her hand. The destiny laid upon her by Woden compelled

her to consent, but she did so with much reluctance. Sigurd then passed

three nights at her side, placing his sword Gram between them as a bar

of separation; but at parting he drew from her finger the ring with

which he had originally plighted his troth to her, and replaced it with

another taken from Fafnir’s hoard. Shortly afterward the wedding of

Gunnar and Brunhild was celebrated with lavish splendour, and they all

returned to Giuki’s court.

Matters progressed happily for some time, until one day Brunhild and

Gudrun went to bathe in the river. Brunhild refused to bathe farther

down the stream than Gudrun—that is, in the water which flowed from

Gudrun to her—asserting that her husband was the son of a king, while

Sigurd had become a menial. Gudrun retorted to her sister-in-law that

not Gunnar, but Sigurd had penetrated the hedge of fire and had taken

from her the ring, which she then showed to Brunhild in proof of her

words. A second and even more disturbing conversation followed, which

served only to increase the hatred between the women, and Brunhild

planned a dreadful vengeance. She feigned illness, retired to her bed,

and when Gunnar inquired what ailed her, asked him if he recalled the

circumstances of their wooing, and how Sigurd, and not he, rode through

the flames to win her. So furious was she at the dreadful insult which

had been placed upon her by Gudrun that she attempted to take Gunnar’s

life. She still loved Sigurd, and could never forgive Gunnar and his

sister for robbing her of him. So terrible was her grief that she sank

into a deep slumber in which she remained for seven days, no one daring

to waken her. Finally Sigurd succeeded in doing so, and she lamented to

him how cruelly she had been deceived; she declared that he and she

had been destined for one another, and that now she had received for

a husband a man who could not match with him. Sigurd begged her not to

harbour a grudge against Gunnar, and told her of his mighty deeds—how

that he had slain the king of the Danes, and also the brother of Budli,

a great warrior—but Brunhild did not cease to lament, and planned

Sigurd’s death, threatening Gunnar with the loss of his dominions and

his life if he would not kill Sigurd. Gunnar hesitated for a long time,

but at length consented, and calling Hogni, ordered him to slay Sigurd

that they might thus obtain the treasure of the Rhinegold. Hogni was

aghast at this, and reminded him that they had pledged their oaths to

Sigurd.

Then Gunnar remembered that his brother Gutthorm had sworn no oath of

loyalty to Sigurd, and so might perform the deed. They plied him with

wolf and snake meat to eat, so that he might become savage by nature,

and they tried to excite his greed with tales of the Rhinegold treasure.

Twice did Gutthorm make the attempt as Sigurd lay in bed, but twice

he was deterred from slaying him by the hero’s penetrating glance. The

third time, however, he found him asleep and pierced him with his sword.

Sigurd awoke and hurled his own sword after Gutthorm, cutting him in

two. He then died, stating that he knew Brunhild to be the instigator

of the murder. Gudrun’s grief was frantic, and at this Brunhild laughed

aloud as if with joy; but later she became more grief-stricken than

Sigurd’s wife herself, and determined to be done with life. Donning

her richest array, she pierced herself with a sword. As she expired she

requested to be burned on Sigurd’s funeral pyre, and also prophesied

that Gudrun would marry Atli, and that the death of many heroes would be

caused thereby.

Gudrun’s Adventure

Gudrun in her great sorrow fled to the court of King Half of Denmark,

at which she tarried for seven years. Her mother Grimhild learned of

her place of concealment and attempted to bring about a reconciliation

between her and Gunnar. She was offered much treasure if she would marry

Atli, King of the Huns, and finally she consented. Atli became

covetous of Gunnar’s wealth—for the latter had taken possession of the

Rhinegold—and invited him to his court. But Gudrun sent a message of

warning to her brother. The runes which composed this, however, were

so manipulated by Vingi, one of the messengers, that they read as a

harmless invitation instead of a warning, and this Gunnar and Hogni

determined to accept. They reached Atli’s court in due season, and as

they arrived Vingi disclosed his true character, stating that he had

lured them into a snare. Hogni slew him, and as they rode to Atli’s

dwelling the Hunnish king and his sons armed themselves for battle and

demanded Sigurd’s treasure, which they declared belonged by right to

Gudrun. Gunnar refused to part with it, and a great combat began. Gudrun

armed herself and fought on the side of her brothers. A fierce battle

raged with great loss on both sides, until nearly all the Nibelungs were

slain, and Gunnar and Hogni, forced to yield to the power of numbers,

were captured and bound.

Gunnar was now asked if he would purchase his life with the treasure,

and he replied eventually that he would do so if he were given Hogni’s

heart. To humour his request the Huns cut out the heart of a slave and

brought it to him; but Gunnar saw through the stratagem and recognized

the heart as that of a coward. They then cut out Hogni’s heart, and

Gunnar, seeing that this was indeed the heart of a prince, was glad, for

now he alone knew where the treasure of the Rhinegold was hid, and he

vowed that Atli should never know of its whereabouts. In great wrath the

Hunnish monarch ordered Gunnar to be thrown into a pit of snakes. His

hands were bound, yet the hero from the Rhine played so exquisitely with

his toes on a harp which Gudrun had sent to him that he lulled to sleep

all the reptiles—with the exception of an adder, which stung him to the

heart so that he died.

Atli, spurning the bodies of the fallen, turned to Gudrun, saying that

she alone was to blame for what had happened. That evening she killed

her two sons, Erp and Eitil, and served their flesh at the banquet which

the King was giving for his warriors. When Atli asked for the boys to

be brought to him, he was told that he had drunk their blood in his wine

and had eaten their hearts.

That night, while he slept, Gudrun took Hogni’s son Hnifling, who

desired to avenge his slaughtered father, and entering Atli’s chamber,

the young man thrust a sword through the breast of the Hunnish king. He

awoke through the pain of his wound, and was informed by Gudrun that she

was his murderess. He bitterly reproached her, only to be told that she

cared for no one but Sigurd. Atli’s last request was that his obsequies

should be such as were fitting for a king, and to ensure that he had

proper funeral rites Gudrun set fire to his castle and burnt his body

together with those of his dead retainers.

The further adventures of Gudrun are related in certain songs in the

Edda, but the Volsunga Saga proper ends with the death of Atli.

Comparisons between the Epics

We see from this account that the Volsunga Saga presents in many

respects an older form of the Nibelungenlied story. Sigurd is the same

as Siegfried; Gunnar, Hogni, and Gudrun are parallels with Gunther,

Hagen, and Kriemhild—although, strangely enough, that name is also borne

by Gudrun’s mother in the Volsunga Saga. We will recall that the events

detailed in the first part of the lay of the Volsungs are vaguely

alluded to in the Nibelungenlied, which assures us that the connexion we

have thus drawn is a correct one.

Myth or History?

We come now to the vexed question as to whether the Nibelungenlied is

mythical or historical in origin. This question has been approached by

certain scholars who, because of their lack of mythological knowledge,

have rendered themselves ridiculous in attempting elucidations on a

purely historical basis. An entirely mythological origin is not here

pleaded for the Nibelungenlied, but it should surely be recognized, even

by the historian who is without mythological training, that no story of

any antiquity exists which does not contain a substantial substratum of

mythical circumstance. So speedy is the crystallization of myth around

the nucleus of historical fact, and so tenacious is its hold, that to

disentangle it from the factors of reality is a task of the most extreme

difficulty, requiring careful handling by scholars who possess a wide

and accurate knowledge of mythological processes. Even to-day, when

students of history have recovered from the first shock of the intrusion

into their domain of the mythologist and the folklorist, so much remains

to be effected in the disentanglement of what is believed to be absolute

historical fact from the mythical growths which surround it that, were

they conscious of the labour which yet remains in this respect, even the

most advanced of our present-day historians would stand aghast at the

task which awaits their successors.

In the Nibelungenlied we have a case in point. What the exact

mythological elements contained in it represent it would indeed

be difficult to say. Students of the Müllerian school have seen in

Siegfried a sun-god, who awakens Brunhild, a nature goddess. This aspect

is not without its likelihood, for in one passage Brunhild tells how

Odin thrust into her side a thorn—evidently the sharp sting of icy

winter—and how the spell rendered her unconscious until awakened by

Siegfried. There are many other mythological factors in the story, and

either a diurnal or seasonal myth may be indicated by it. But it would

require a separate volume to set forth the arguments in favour of a

partial mythological origin of the Nibelungenlied. One point is to be

especially observed—a point which we have not so far seen noted in a

controversy where it would have seemed that every special circumstance

had been laboured to the full—and that is that, besides mythological

matter entering into the original scheme of the Nibelungenlied, a very

considerable mass of mythical matter has crystallized around it since it

was cast into its first form. This will be obvious to any folklorist

of experience who will take the trouble to compare the Scandinavian and

German versions.

The Historical Theory

Abeling and Boer, the most recent protagonists of the historical theory,

profess to see in the Nibelungenlied the misty and confused traditions

of real events and people. Abeling admits that it contains mythical

elements, but identifies Siegfried with Segeric, son of the Burgundian

king Sigismund, Brunhild with the historical Brunichildis, and Hagan

with a certain Hagnerius. The basis of the story, according to him, is

thus a medley of Burgundian historical traditions round which certain

mythological details have crystallized. The historical nucleus is the

overthrow of the Burgundian kingdom of Gundahar by the Huns in A.D.

436. Other events, historical in themselves, were torn from their proper

epochs and grouped around this nucleus. Thus the murder of Segeric,

which happened eighty-nine years later, and the murder of Attila by

his Burgundian wife Ildico, are torn from their proper historical

surroundings and fitted into the story. Boer, on the other hand, will

not have it that there is any mythology at all in the Nibelungenlied,

and, according to him, the nucleus of the legend is an old story of

the murder of relatives. This became grafted on the Siegfried legend

according to some authorities, but Boer will not admit this, and

presents a number of arguments to disprove the mythical character of the

Siegfried story. The reasoning is ingenious, but by no means

valuable. We know that the mythologies of the ancient Germans and the

Scandinavians were in many respects, though not in all, one and the same

system, and we find many of the characters of the Nibelungenlied among

the divine beings alluded to in the Edda. It is unlikely that the

dramatis personae of a German murder story would find its way into even

the most decadent form of Scandinavian belief. There is every reason to

conclude that a great many historical elements are to be discovered in

the Nibelungenlied, but to discount entirely those which are mythical

is absurd and even more futile than it would be to deny that many of the

incidents related in the great epic reflect in some measure historical

events.

The Klage

The Klage, a sequel to the Nibelungenlied, recounts somewhat tamely

the events which follow upon the dire catastrophe pictured in the great

German epic. It is on the whole more modern than the Lied, and most

critics ascribe it to a period so late as the fourteenth century. It

is highly artificial and inartistic, and Grimm points out that it is

obvious that in penning it the author did not have the Nibelungenlied,

as we know it, before him. As it is practically unknown to

English-speaking readers, a résumé of it may not be out of place here.

It describes the search among the dead bodies in the house of slaughter,

the burying of them, the journey of Etzel’s “fiddler,” Swemmelin, to the

Rhine by way of Bechlarn and Passau to give the tidings of the massacre

to Queen Brunhild, his return, and the final parting from Etzel of

Dietrich and his wife Herrat, who also take Bechlarn on their way. Level

and poor as the narrative is, it reaches pathos in the description of

the arrival of the messengers at Bechlarn. To spare his niece (Gotelint)

Dietrich tells them not to mention the terrible events which have

happened, but to say that he and Rüdiger will soon come to see her, or

at all events himself. They are received with great rejoicing—Gotelint

and her daughter think “both to receive love without sorrow, as often

before, from beloved glances.” The young margravine has a foreboding of

evil at seeing the messengers so few—only seven. Then her mother tells

her of an evil dream which she has had, and she in turn has to tell of

another which has come to herself. Meanwhile the messengers are at

hand, and are observed to be sad. They give to Rüdiger’s wife the false

tidings of peace which they have been instructed to relate, and the

younger lady wonders that her father should have sent no message to

herself specially. The ladies continue to question the messengers about

Kriemhild: how has she received her brother? what did she say to Hagen?

what to Gunther? How is it, asks the younger one, that Giselher has sent

her never a message? Each lying answer costs the speaker more and

more sorrow, and at last his tears begin to flow. The young margravine

exclaims that there must be ill news, that evil has befallen them, and

that the guests and her father must be dead. As she speaks one of the

messengers can contain himself no longer, and a cry breaks with blood

from his mouth. All his companions burst into tears at the same time.

The margravine conjures them by their troth to tell how they parted

from her husband, saying that the lie must have an end. “Then spake the

fiddler, Swemmelin the messenger: ‘Lady, we wished to deny to you that

which we yet must say, since no man could conceal it; after this

hour, ye see Margrave Rüdiger no more alive.’” The margravine, we are

afterward told, dies of grief at the news, as does old Queen Ute at her

abbey of Lors. Brunhild survives, and is prevailed upon by her vassals

to have her son crowned. Etzel, after parting with Dietrich, loses

his mind; according to another version, his fate remains altogether

uncertain. Dietelint, the young margravine, is taken under Dietrich’s

protection, who promises to find her a husband. Bishop Pilgrin has the

story written out in Latin letters, “that men should deem it true.” A

writer, Master Konrad, then began to set it down in writing; since then

it has been often set to verse in Teuton tongues; old and young know

well the tale. “Of their joy and of their sorrow I now say to you no

more; this lay is called Ein Klage.”

Walthar of Aquitaine

One of the grandest and most heroic epics of the great age of romance

is that of Walthar of Aquitaine. It is indissolubly connected with the

Rhine and with the city of Worms because in the vicinity the hero whose

feats of arms it celebrates fought his greatest battle. It was written

in monkish Latin at any time between the eighth and ninth centuries, and

is connected with later versions of the Nibelungenlied, which contains

numerous allusions to it. Founded upon traditional materials collected

and edited by some gifted occupant of the cloister, it opens in the

grand manner by telling how the empire of the Huns had already lasted

for more than a thousand years, when Attila invaded the territory of the

Franks, ruled over by Gibicho. Gibicho, trembling for his throne, by the

advice of his counsellors determined to pay tribute and give hostages to

the terrible Hun; but as his son Gunther was too young to be sent as a

hostage, he put in his place a noble youth named Hagen, and paying the

invaders a great indemnity in treasure, thus secured the safety of his

kingdom. The Huns then turned their attention to the Burgundians, whose

king Herric had an only daughter, the beautiful Hildegund. Herric shut

himself up in the town of Châlons, and calling together his ministers

imparted to them his deliberations.

“Since the Franks, who are so much stronger than we, have yielded,” he

said, “how can we of Burgundy hope to triumph against such a host? I

will give my daughter Hildegund as a hostage to the Huns. Better that

one should suffer than that the realm should be laid waste.” The Huns

accepted Hildegund as a hostage, and with much treasure turned their

faces westward to the kingdom of Aquitaine, whose king, Alphere, had an

only son, Walthar, who was already affianced to Hildegund. He, too, had

to give up his son as hostage and pay tribute.

Although ruthless as an invader and cruel as a conqueror, Attila

displayed the utmost kindness to the children. He treated them in every

way as befitted their rank, and handing the girl over to the queen, had

the boys trained in martial exercises and intellectual arts, till in

a few years’ time they easily surpassed all of the Huns in every

accomplishment that becomes a knight. So greatly did Attila’s queen

trust the maiden, Hildegund, that she placed in her charge all the

treasures Attila had won in war. Life was pleasant for the youthful

hostages, but one day news came to the ear of Attila that Gibicho was

dead and that Gunther was his successor. Learning this, Hagen succeeded

in making his escape by night, and fearing that Walthar would follow his

example, Attila’s queen suggested to her husband that he should marry

the youthful warrior, who had greatly distinguished himself at the head

of the Huns, to a Hunnish maiden. But Walthar had no mind for such a

match and declared himself unworthy of marriage, urging that if wedded

he might neglect his military duties, and declaring that nothing was so

sweet to him as for ever to be busy in the faithful service of his lord.

Attila, never doubting him, and lulled from all suspicion by further

victories won by him over a rebellious people, dismissed the matter

from his mind; but on returning from his successful campaign Walthar

had speech with Hildegund on the subject of their betrothal, hitherto

untouched between them.

At first she thought that he merely mocked her, but he protested that he

was weary of exile, was anxious to escape, and would have fled ere this

but that it grieved him to leave her alone at the Hunnish court. Her

reply is one characteristic of women in medieval days.

“Let my lord command,” she said; “I am ready for his love to bear evil

hap or good.”

She then provided him, out of the treasure-chests of Attila, with helm,

hauberk, and breast-plate. They filled two chests with Hunnish money in

the shape of golden rings, placed four pairs of sandals on the top and

several fish-hooks, and Walthar told Hildegund that all must be ready in

a week’s time.

The Escape

On the seventh day after this Walthar gave a great feast to Attila, his

nobles, and his household. He pressed food and wine on the Huns, and

when their platters were clear and the tables removed, he handed to

the king a splendid carven goblet, full to the brim of the richest and

oldest wine. This Attila emptied at a draught, and ordered all his men

to follow his example. Soon the wine overcame the Huns, who, pressed by

Walthar, caroused so deeply that all were at last rendered unconscious.

Walthar gave the sign to Hildegund, and they slipped from the hall and

from the stable took his noble war-horse Lion, so named for his courage.

They hung the treasure-chests like panniers on each flank of the

charger, and taking with them some food for the journey, set off.

Hildegund took the reins, Walthar in full armour sitting behind her. All

night they did not draw rein, and during the day they hid in the gloomy

woods. At every breath, at the snapping of a twig, or the chirping of

a bird, Hildegund trembled. They avoided the habitations of men and

skirted the mountains, where but few faces were to be seen, and so they

made good their flight.

But the Huns, roused from their drunken sleep, gazed around stupidly

and cried loudly for Walthar, their boon companion as they thought,

but nowhere was he to be found. The queen, too, missed Hildegund and,

realizing that the pair had escaped, made loud wail through the palace.

Angry and bewildered, Attila could touch neither food nor drink. Enraged

at the manner in which he had been deceived, he offered great gifts

to him who would bring back Walthar in chains; but none of the Hunnish

champions considered themselves fit for such a task, and at length the

hue and cry ceased, and Walthar and Hildegund were left to make their

way back to Aquitaine as best they could.

Full of the thought that they were being pursued, Walthar and the maiden

fled onward. He killed the birds of the wood and caught fish to supply

them with food. His attitude to Hildegund was one of the deepest

chivalry, and he was ever mindful for her comfort. Fourteen days had

passed when at last, issuing from the darkness of the forest, they

beheld the silver Rhine gleaming in the sunlight and spied the towers

of Worms. At length he found a ferry, but, fearing to make gossip in

the vicinity, he paid the ferryman with fishes, which he had previously

caught. The ferryman, as it chanced, sold the fish to the king’s cook,

who dressed them and placed them before his royal master. The monarch

declared that there were no such fishes in France, and asked who had

brought them to Worms. The ferryman was summoned, and related how he had

ferried over an armed warrior, a fair maiden, and a great war-horse with

two chests. Hagen, who sat at the king’s table, exclaimed full joyfully:

“Now will I avow that this is none other than my comrade Walthar

returning from the Hunnish land.”

“Say ye so?” retorted King Gunther. “It is clear that by him the

Almighty sends me back the treasure of my father Gibicho.”

So ordered he a horse to be brought, and taking with him twelve of his

bravest chiefs besides Hagen, who sought in vain to dissuade him, he

went in search of Walthar.

The Cave

Journeying from the banks of the Rhine, Walthar and the maiden had by

this time reached the forest of the Vosges. They halted at a spot where

between two hills standing close together is situated a pleasant and

shady cave, not hollowed out in the earth, but formed by the beetling of

the rocks, a fit haunt for bandits, carpeted with green moss. But little

sleep had Walthar known since his escape from the Hunland, so, spying

this cool retreat, he crept inside it to rest. Putting off his heavy

armour, he placed his head on Hildegund’s lap, bidding her keep watch

and wake him by a touch if she saw aught of danger. But the covetous

Gunther had seen his tracks in the dust, and ever urging on his

companions soon came near the cave where Walthar reposed. Hagen warned

him of Walthar’s powers as a champion, and told him that he was too

great a warrior to permit himself to be despoiled easily.

Hildegund, noticing their approach, gently aroused Walthar, who put on

his armour. At first she thought the approaching band were Huns pursuing

them, and implored him to slay her; but Walthar smilingly bade her be of

good cheer, as he had recognized Hagen’s helm. He was evidently aware,

however, of the purpose for which he had been followed, and going to

the mouth of the cave, he addressed the assembled warriors, telling them

that no Frank should ever return to say that he had taken aught of his

treasure unpunished.

Hagen advised a parley in case Walthar should be ready to give up the

treasure without bloodshed, and Camillo, the prefect of Metz, was sent

to him for this purpose. Camillo told him that if he would give up his

charger, the two chests, and the maiden, Gunther would grant him life;

but Walthar laughed in his face.

“Go tell King Gunther,” he said, “that if he will not oppose my passage

I will present him with one hundred armlets of red metal.”

Hagen strongly advised the king to accept the offer, for on the night

before he had had an evil dream of a bear which tore off one of the

king’s legs in conflict, and put out one of his own eyes when he came

to Gunther’s aid. Gunther replied with a sneer, and Hagen, greatly

humiliated, declared that he would share neither the fight nor the

spoil.

“There is your foe,” he said. “I will stay here and see how you fare at

his hands.”

Now only one warrior could attack Walthar at a time. It is needless to

go into details of his several conflicts, which are varied with very

considerable skill and fancy, but all of which end in his triumph. The

sixth champion he had to meet was Patavrid, sister’s son to Hagen, who

vainly endeavoured to restrain him, but who also was worsted, and after

the fall of the next warrior the Franks themselves urged Gunther to end

the combat; but he, furious at his want of success, only drove them to

it the more vehemently.

At last four of them made a combined attack on Walthar, but because of

the narrowness of the path they could not come at him with any better

success than could one single warrior, and they too were put out of the

fight.

Then Gunther was left alone and, fleeing to Hagen, besought him to come

to his aid. Long did Hagen resist his entreaties, but at last he was

moved by Gunther’s description of the manner in which his kinsfolk had

been slain by Walthar. Hagen’s advice was to lure Walthar into the open,

when both should attack him, so Hagen and the king departed and selected

a spot for an ambush, letting their horses go loose.

Uncertain of what had passed between Hagen and the king, Walthar decided

upon remaining in the cave till the morning, so after placing bushes

around the mouth of the cave to guard against a surprise, he gave thanks

to heaven for his victory.

Rising from his knees, he bound together the six horses which remained,

then, loosing his armour, comforted Hildegund as best he might and

refreshed himself with food, after which he lay down upon his shield and

requested the maiden to watch during his sleep. Although she was tired

herself, Hildegund kept awake by singing in a low tone. After his first

sleep Walthar rose refreshed, and bidding Hildegund rest herself, he

stood leaning upon his spear, keeping guard at the cave-mouth. When

morning had come he loaded four of the horses with spoils taken from

the dead warriors, and placing Hildegund on the fifth, mounted the sixth

himself. Then with great caution he sent forward first of all the

four laden horses, then the maiden, and closed the rear with the horse

bearing the two treasure-chests.

For about a mile they proceeded thus, when, looking backward, Hildegund

espied two men riding down the hill toward them and called to Walthar

to flee. But that he would not do, saying: “If honour falls, shame

shall attend my last hour.” He bade her take the reins of Lion, his good

charger, which carried the gold, and seek refuge in the neighbouring

wood, while he ascended the hill to await his enemies.

Gunther advanced, hurling insulting epithets at the champion, who

ignored him, but turned to Hagen, appealing to their old friendship

and to the recollections of the many hours of childhood they had spent

together. He had thought that Hagen would have been the first to welcome

him, would have compelled him to accept his hospitality, and would have

escorted him peacefully to his father’s kingdom. If he would break his

fealty to Gunther, said Walthar, he should depart rich, his shield full

of red gold. Irritated at such an offer, Hagen replied that he would not

be deluded, and that for Walthar’s slaying of his kinsmen he must have

vengeance. So saying, he hurled his spear at Walthar, which the latter

avoided. Gunther then cast a shaft which was equally harmless. Then,

drawing their swords and covering themselves with their shields, the

Franks sought to close with the Aquitainian, who kept them at bay with

his spear. As their shorter swords could not reach past Walthar’s mighty

shaft, Gunther attempted to recover the spear which he had cast and

which lay before the hero’s feet, and told Hagen to go in front; but as

he was about to pick it up from the ground Walthar perceived his device

and, placing his foot upon it, flung Gunther on his knees, and would

have slain him had not Hagen, rushing to his aid, managed to cover him

with his shield.

The struggle continued. The hot sunshine came down, and the champions

were bathed in sweat. Walthar, tired of the strife, took the offensive,

and springing at Hagen, with a great stroke of his spear carried away

a part of his armour. Then with a marvellous blow of his sword he smote

off the king’s leg as far as the thigh. He would have dispatched him

with a second blow, but Hagen threw himself over Gunther’s body and

received the sword-stroke on his own head. So well tempered was his helm

that the blade flew in flinders, shivered to the handle.

Instantly Walthar looked about him for another weapon, but quick

as thought Hagen seized the opportunity and cut off his right hand,

“fearful to peoples and princes.” But, undismayed, the hero inserted the

wounded stump into the shield, and drawing with his left hand a Hunnish

half-sword girt to his right side, he struck at Hagen so fiercely that

he bereft him of his right eye, cutting deep into the temple and

lips and striking out six of his teeth. But neither might fight more:

Gunther’s leg, Walthar’s hand, and Hagen’s eye lay on the ground. They

sat down on the heath and stanched with flowers the flowing stream of

their blood. They called to them Hildegund, who bound up their wounds

and brought them wine.

Wounded as they were, they cracked many a joke over their cups, as

heroes should.

“Friend,” said Hagen, “when thou huntest the stag, of whose leather

mayest thou have gloves without end, I warn thee to fill thy right-hand

glove with soft wool, that thou mayest deceive the game with the

semblance of a hand. But what sayest thou to break the custom of thy

people in carrying thy sword at thy right side and embracing thy wife

with thy left arm?”

“Ha,” retorted Walthar, laughing grimly, “thou wilt have to greet the

troops of heroes with a side glance. When thou gettest thee home, make

thee a larded broth of milk and flour, which will both nourish and cure

thee.”

Then they placed on horseback the king, who was in sore pain. Hagen bore

him back to Worms, whilst Walthar and Hildegund pursued their way to

Aquitaine, and, on arrival, magnificently celebrated their wedding.

For thirty years did Walthar rule his people after his father’s death.

“What wars after this, what triumphs he ever had, behold, my blunted

pen refuses to mark. Thou whosoever readest this, forgive a chirping

cricket. Weigh not a yet rough voice but the age, since as yet she hath

not left the nest for the air. This is the poem of Walthar. Save us,

Jesus Christ.”