CHAPTER VII

THE FIGHT OF SIEGMUND

Swiftly came Sieglinde up the rocky path, and Siegmund followed hard after her, bidding her rest and not fare so
wildly on; for after that the spell of spring and of love had so wrought within her that she recked nothing of
leaving the house and hearth of Hunding, and the transport and sweet madness of her love had been fulfilled,
horror and dread had seized the woman's heart, and she was distraught with unspeakable dismay at her wild
adventure. Then had she risen up from his side in the middle of the spring night, even while he, filled full of love,
was sleeping, to escape from what she had done. But at her stirring he had awoke, and through the hours betwixt
that and day had he followed after her, she still flying from him through field and forest. For at first on that
evening of yesterday, which in the morning's light seemed to her so long ago, the torrent of her love had carried
her unthinking, but now it seemed to her that her deed was altogether unholy. Utterly had she loved the man, and
utterly was his love hers, and so great was the might of that and the transport of its power, that in its first
outpouring it seemed to her that all else was of no import beside it. But afterwards she had thought on what she
had done, and shame and horror burned within her with as fierce a flame. Loveless had her marriage with
Hunding been, yet marriage it was, and hallowed by the ordinance of the gods. But this was lawlessness
incarnate, and unnatural wedlock. Yet in her woman's heart she blamed Siegmund not at all; the blame in her
mind was wholly hers. She had brought shame on herself, but that was a small thing compared to the shame in
which she had made him a partaker.
But now for very weariness her limbs could bear her no further, and at the top of the rocky path nigh to where
Wotan and Brunnhilde had sat that night, she faltered, and it was his arm that saved her from falling.
"Wait, wait," he whispered. "Speak to me, and let us have done with this dumbness of fear. Thou art safe; my
arm encompasseth thee; there is no fear while thou leanest on my breast."
At his touch, again the eternal woman of her nature awoke, and as he led her very gently to the very seat where
Wotan had sat with Brunnhilde by his knee, she clung passionately to him, and gazing long into his face,
embraced him. Yet even while her lips met his, the horrors of the night rose insurgent within her, and again she
flung herself off from him, shame branding her, as a felon is branded.
"Siegmund, Siegmund!" she cried. "What have we done? Shame on me, shame on me!"
"Shame there has been, Sieglinde," said he, "and that when thou didst abide in the house of Hunding. But that
shame shall I soon wash away with his blood, and in that crimson stream shall it be cleansed. Ah, fare not on so
wildly; wait here, for I am well assured that he will come here in pursuit, and here also shall he meet the fate
which has been appointed by him who in my sorest need granted me to find the sword. O sword of my need,"
cried he, and his fingers tightened on its hilt, "not in vain have I called on the name of vengeance. Surely I will
repay."
Then was she a little quieted at his loving touch, and at the fierceness of surety of his hate towards Hunding, but
soon she started up and listened.
"Horns, I hear horns!" she cried, "and the shouts of the pursuers. The shouts of the pursuers sound ever nearer,
and strike the sky and echo from the hills. Hunding has woke from his night-draught, and is hot of foot on the
trail. He calls on his kindred to help him, and loosens the hounds of hunting. They nose thy trail, and thirstily
they give voice, and their thirst waits to be assuaged by blood."
Loudly and in panic terror she cried, but at the end her voice failed, and her arm outflung dropped nerveless, and
over her weary eyes drooped the shelter of her eyelids.
"Siegmund, where art thou?" she murmured. "Where art thou? I search for thy look; oh, let it light on me again;
leave me not, Siegmund, oh, leave me not. Hark, hark! again I hear that deep baying of the hounds of death; they
thirst for thy blood, and their fangs white and sharp grow red with the meat of their hunting. They reck not of thy
sword, so fling it away. Hide, let us hide where none shall find us. Thy sword is shattered; what toy-thing is this?
—thou fallest reeling ... Siegmund ... Siegmund...."
At that her head drooped and she sank like a thing broken in his arms. It was in vain that he tried to rouse her,
and only by the rise and fall of her bosom did he know she lived. So very gently—for, after the labour and travel
of the night, it might be that she would sleep—he laid her back on the ground, and made for her a pillow of his
knee, to rest her head. But she moved not, nor opened her eyes, yet, for her bosom still rose gently and fell, he
comforted himself, and bending over her kissed her on the forehead. Thus they sat, and he grieved over her.
But by now had Brunnhilde put bridle again on to her horse Grane, and led him lightly out of the cavern, and
came upon Siegmund and his bride sitting thus. And he was aware of her coming, and looked up, and saw her
glorious face; but there was no smile there, for the work before her gave no joy to her. Gravely she looked at
him, and her heart was stirred with sorrow for the deed that her father had laid on her to do, and her eyes burned
large with doom.
"Siegmund, I am here," she said, "and from here soon I lead thee. Thou seest that I am near thee?"
And Siegmund answered: "Yes, but I know thee not," and a strange cold heaviness was lead in his limbs and in
his eye.
"I come near to those whom death comes near to," said she, "and none others see me. He into whose eyes I look
stays not in the light. With me thou goest, and thou goest with me far."
Then something of the great calm with which death is ever girt about, struck on Siegmund's heart, but he was not
afraid.
"And where goest thou?" he asked.
"I go to Walhalla," said she, "where the great father waits thee. There lovingly will the hands of dead heroes
greet thee; with hands outstretched and with smile of welcome will they greet thee."
"And shall I find there Walse, the Wolsung's father?" said he in wonder.
"His face too shall greet thee."
"And will there be a woman there too, to greet me?" asked he.
"Yea, surely," said she. "The maidens of his will are there, and she who will hand thee the gladsome wine is
Wotan's daughter. Red is that wine, and with it are the hearts of heroes made glad."
But it was not after Wotan's daughter that Siegmund asked, and again he said:
"O most holy and austere of maidens, Wotan's child, truth is written in thine eyes, and truth thou wilt tell me. It is
not of such I ask, but of my bride Sieglinde. Will she be there?"
But Brunnhilde shook her head.
"Death comes not for her yet," she said, "and she shall not be there."
Then Siegmund laughed.
"Then get thee back to Walhalla," cried he, "and give my greeting to the high walls of Wotan, and to him who
sits therein and is lord thereof. And greet for me Walse"—for he knew not that Walse his father was none other
than Wotan—"and greet the many heroes and the maidens of the will of the highest. But I come not after thee."
Then Brunnhilde was very sorry, yet what was to be, was to be.
"Siegmund," she said, "thou hast looked on me, and with me thou must go. Lightly thou reckest of mortal foes,
for thy limbs are strong, but the wise man wars not against death. I am here to claim thee for him."
But though a chill seemed to fall round Siegmund, as if the sun had passed behind a cloud, yet was he not afraid;
and, lo! his dear burden still leaned at his knee.
"I come not," he said, "for where Sieglinde is, in weal or woe, there I abide, and go not thence. Thy face daunts
me not, I shrink not before thy glance, though bright it is with the brightness of danger. Besides, who is it that
deals death to me?"
"The hand of Hunding," she said. "For thus—at last—the lot was cast."
But Siegmund only smiled, and his fingers dwelt lovingly on the sword-hilt.
"I fear not that," he said, "for it is by my hand that he will fall, and if thou seekest a dead man, I will give thee a
corpse, but not mine. Look at my sword, for he who let me gain it, promised my safety. Thus thy threats and thy
warning are idle words, the buzzing of a fly."
Then Brunnhilde's face grew stern and set.
"He who let thee gain the sword," she cried in a loud voice, "now is determined otherwise, and has decreed thy
death. Thus the magic of the sword is a thing of nought, a shadow that has passed away."
But at her raised voice, Siegmund forgot death and the sword and all else, and feared only that she would wake
Sieglinde, who now slept gently.
"Be still, be still," he whispered, "and wake her not."
And he bent over her, and sorrowed for her, for it seemed to him that all the world was gathered against her
whom he loved so well, and that he alone, for whom she had braved the wrath of men and gods, was on her side.
Should then he forsake her? And if, as the maid had told him, the giver of the sword was now unfaithful, and
decreed him death, then he would have none of his Walhalla; Hella were sweeter to his troubled soul. High
burned his anger at this unfaithfulness, and he turned to the maid who stood watching him.
"If then death is decreed for me," he said, "think you I will be at ease in Walhalla? Nay, Hella rather than such
peace."
Then Brunnhilde's stem glance softened, and she marvelled that he so loved the woman.
"Then is eternal joy so worthless to thee?" she asked him softly. "Dost thou desire nothing but the woman who is
sleeping there? Is nought else sweet to thy soul, and nought else desirable?"
And he looked at her with bitterness, and marked the softened glance of her eye. Yet though she appeared so
young and so maidenly, her heart must needs be utterly cold, since she did not comprehend how a woman filled
the heart of the man who loved her.
"Dost thou mock me?" he said. "For what else could I care than that which lies here? I think thou art a foe to me,
and would gladly see harm and woe come to me. Be it so; and may my grief satisfy the greed and hunger of thy
heart. But as for Walhalla—it is idle for thee to name it to me. Dost thou not see? Here is my heaven and my
rest."
Then she began to understand the need of his heart, and with that she felt a tenderness for both him and the
woman which was new to her.
"Yes, yes," she said, "I feel what thou feelest. But, Siegmund, what must be, must be. Leave her then to me.
Safely and surely will I ward her and keep all harm from her."
And she would have lifted Sieglinde up and taken her to some hiding-place of safety, but he stopped her.
"Stay," said he, "she is mine, mine, and no other shall touch her. If so be that I must die, as thou sayest, it is
better, it is better—for all the whole world is against her—that she should die, here, now. I will slay her myself as
she sleeps, and death will come softly to her as a dream. Thus she will be at peace."
Then did the tumult and trouble in Brunnhilde's heart seethe and stir.
"No, no!" she cried. "Listen to me, for thou speakest wild words. The sacred pledge of love which thou hast
given, for that I plead. Siegmund, Siegmund, thou canst not slay thy son!"
Yet he drew the sword, and brandished it.
"His is the blame," he cried, "who promised me victory with this sword, who now turns his back on me, faithless
and untrue. Yet shall it aid me, for that with it I can give peace to her. Strike then, sword of need, sever both lives
at once."
But at the sight of his sword uplifted to strike, all the woman in Brunnhilde rose invincible, and the solemn
command of Wotan that she should fight for Hunding weighed lighter than chaff. In a moment her mind was
made, and counting not the cost, she knew that she must needs befriend Siegmund and fight for him, and the
thunders and terrors of Wotan had no weight with her. And with a cry she stayed his arm.
"Ah, I break," she cried. "I cannot do the deed that was laid on me. She shall live, she shall live, and instead of
death I will bring thee the joy of victory. No longer fight I for Hunding; it is thee, Siegmund, whom my shield
will shelter. So up, up; already the horns of battle sound nearer. What shall be, I cannot tell, but the sword thou
wieldest is good steel, and the shield of me, Brunnhilde, will guard thee in the coming fight. Hail to thee,
Siegmund, hail! At the fight I await thee."
All her face was afire with human love and pity, and so great a change was there from the look of that stern cold
maiden and her pitiless beauty, that Siegmund could scarce believe that this was the same Brunnhilde. But at her
words, joy and gladness uplifted him, and his heart, erstwhile full of despair and bitterness, was once more
strong and hopeful. But Brunnhilde tarried not, for indeed, as she said, the horns of battle sounded near, but
swung herself on to her horse, and rode swiftly off among the rocks towards the horns and approaching battle,
and the noise of her horse's hoofs sounded fainter, and then was silent.
Now as they thus spoke together, behold the heavens had grown very black, and over the bright aspect of the sky
had ridden swiftly up the storm-rack, low and sullen-looking, and torn into streamers and ribands of wrath.
Already the hills and vales beyond had been entirely blotted out, and by now the clouds had reached even to that
rocky ridge not far from where Siegmund sat, while mingled with the trouble and menace of the heavens came
the blast of the horns of battle sounding ever nearer, and Siegmund knew that it was time for him to be gone to
meet the black foe who awaited him. Then very gently he got up, and without waking Sieglinde, laid her back
against the rocky seat, and once more bent over her, to see how she fared. The blessed balm of sleep had been
spread over her eyes, and she was at rest, and her heart was unconscious of the wild alarms of war. And
Siegmund wondered whether it was the maiden, who seemed so fierce and cold, but whose soul at the end had
been touched with so gentle and womanly a pity, who had shed this gift on the woman, thinking that the clash of
swords and the din of battle would daunt her. Then even as he bent over her she smiled in her sleep, as if some
happy dream had come to her. So he kissed her very gently on the forehead, marvelling that the trumpet-calls,
which grew swiftly nearer, disturbed her not, and whispered to her—
"Sleep sound, beloved, till the battle be overpast, and peace, the peace of victory, welcome thy waking."
Then for the last time he turned from her, for peace was not yet, until Nothung his sword had spoken sharp words
with its flaming tongue. Swiftly he strode up the rocky ridge, where the embattled thunder-clouds swallowed him
up, nor was there any fear in his heart: only he longed to see Hunding face to face, and drive vengeance home.
But Sieglinde lay there smiling in her sleep, for it was even as Siegmund had supposed, and she was a child
again living with her mother in the forest. Yet even as Siegmund left her, the tranquillity of her sleep was shaken,
and it seemed to her that her father and the boy Siegmund were in the forest together, and though the hour was
late, they had not yet returned. And she cried to her mother that her heart misgave her, for she was troubled with
the looks and the words of certain strangers. Then in her dream the sweet air of the forest grew foul and black,
and smoke swirled silently out of the woods, and tongues and fingers of flame came nearer, and the house where
they dwelt caught fire. Then aloud she cried on Siegmund to save her, and with her own cry awoke. Yet was it
not perhaps her own cry that woke her, but the sudden and sharp din of thunder near by, and starting up she saw
she was alone, and all round her were storm-clouds of awful blackness, and from one to another shot the fires of
lightning, and the thunder bellowed when it saw them. And mixed with the lightnings and thunders were the red
cries of the horns of battle. Then, and her heart stood still when she heard, from not far off came the voice of
Hunding, which she knew well and hated.
"Wehwalt, Wehwalt!" it cried, calling her beloved by the name he had shed as trees shed their leaves in autumn.
"Where are thou? Wait for me; I am coming swiftly; else shall my hounds make thee stay."
Then in answer came the voice she knew and loved; "Think not to hide from me, Hunding," it cried, "for all that
the storm is so black and blinding. The father of the gods himself shall not hide thee from me. Stay where thou
art and I will surely find thee."
And his voice grew louder as he spake, so she knew that he was coming nearer.
Then from the ridge close behind came Hunding's voice again, not a stone's-throw off, yet in the thick darkness
she could see nought.
"O shameful wooer!" it cried. "In Fricka's hand is thy lot set."
And immediately Siegmund answered, being also come to the selfsame ridge—
"Still dost thou think I am weaponless, coward and fool that thou art? Thinkest thou to terrify me by thy woman-
champion? Fight me, fight me. Remember thou the sword in thy house which none could move. Lightly I
unsheathed it, and its tongue shall lick up thy life-blood; for thy life-blood it thirsts, and soon will I give it to
drink."
Then came a flash of lightning from the cloud, and Sieglinde saw them as phantoms on the edge of the ridge
already at fight And she rushed towards it, not being able to bear that sight, calling loudly on them to stay, or first
to kill her, and then settle their quarrel. But ere she was come to the ridge, a blinding light broke out of the cloud
above the head of Siegmund, so strong and glorious that she was dazzled and fell back from before it. But in the
middle of that light there appeared Brunnhilde floating there, and lo! her shield was held out so that it protected
Siegmund and sheltered him. And she cried loudly to her hero, in a fierce merriment—
"Have at him, Siegmund; thy sword is safe under my shield."
Then was Siegmund's heart uplifted, and he drew back his arm for a deadly stroke at Hunding, when even as it
was about to fall, right over Hunding's head broke out a red and lurid light, full of wrath and anger, and in the
midst stood Wotan, standing over the other, with his spear outstretched over against Siegmund. And in the voice
at which all earth and heaven trembles—
"Thy sword is shivered, Siegmund," said he. "Wotan's spear is stretched against thee. Sink thou back from it."
Then did Brunnhilde quail in panic terror before her father, and her shield no longer covered Siegmund. And the
mighty blow of his sword struck on that outstretched spear and was shivered, and into his breast did Hunding
thrust his sword, so that he fell and moved no more. And Sieglinde, beholding, gave one bitter cry, and sank
swooning to the ground. But as Siegmund fell, the great light which had shone round Brunnhilde was swallowed
up in darkness, and the red light round Wotan was extinguished also. And under cover of the darkness
Brunnhilde, though stricken sore with the fear of the wrath of Wotan, yet was mindful of the woman Sieglinde,
whom she had sworn to befriend, and she stole down from the ridge crouching, yet firm of purpose, to her side.

"Wotan's spear is stretched against thee."

"To horse! to horse!" she cried; and seeing that Sieglinde's senses were gone from her, she gathered her up in the
strength of her noble womanhood, and with that burden in her arms mounted her horse Grane and galloped off
away from the open places that she might hide her from the wrath to come. Nor was she too soon, for presently
after the clouds were parted and rolled away, and lo! on the ridge stood Wotan, and at his feet lay Siegmund. And
as Wotan looked at him his godlike mind was torn with agony and woe unspeakable. As yet Hunding saw not the
god, for his eyes were not opened, and cruelly with his foot on the man he wrenched out his sword from his
breast. And at that, seeing that he who had fallen was noble, and the other but a black cur from the forest, Wotan
turned to him and opened his eyes.
"Get thee hence, slave," said he, "and tell Fricka that by the spear of Wotan is her vengeance wrought. Begone!"
And in contempt he waved his hand, and before that withering scorn Hunding sank down dead. Then suddenly
fierce anger seized Wotan, for he thought of what Brunnhilde had done, and how she disobeyed his command,
and made scorn of his words.
"Woe to her, woe to her!" he cried. "Dire and dread shall be her portion for this day's work. With the reined
lightning and the bridled thunder follow I after her, swift on the wings of the storm."
And at his word the winds of heaven and all the hurricanes of the air rushed to his bidding, and seated in his
chariot of storms he drove on Brunnhilde's trail.

CHAPTER VIII

THE