The huntsman's house was strangely built, with the trunk of an ash tree in its very centre, while struck deep into its hole was a sword. The weapon had been driven so far into the tree's trunk, that only its hilt was to be seen. The house was poor, indeed, with only a table and some rough benches for furniture, and at one side, a fireplace where a dull fire flickered. One night, while Sieglinde was about to prepare Hunding's supper, a handsome youth burst into the hut, seeking shelter from the storm. The room was empty and he stood at the open door, looking about for some one from whom he might ask a welcome; but all was silent and deserted; so he staggered to the hearth and sank down before the fire upon a great bearskin. He appeared to be exhausted as if he had fled far from some persistent foe. He wore no armour, had no arms, and was quite defenceless and worn. "Whoever owns this shelter and warmth must share it with me for a moment," he sighed: "I can go no farther;" and he stretched himself before the welcome blaze. Sieglinde, hearing a sound and thinking Hunding might have returned, came from an inner room. Upon opening the door the sight that met her eyes was the man upon her hearth-stone. "Some stranger here!" She whispered to herself, a little afraid, for she was not able to see his half-hidden face. Poor Siegmund had no sooner stretched himself before the blaze than he fell asleep. Presently Sieglinde drew nearer, looked into his face and saw that he was very handsome, besides being gentle in appearance. "I wonder if he can be ill?" she thought, compassionately; and as she continued to look into his face a great feeling of tenderness and love for him crept into her heart. Half waking, he called for water, and Sieglinde gave it to him from the drinking horn. As she again bent to give him the water, he saw her for the first time, and he looked at her thoughtfully in his turn, and in his turn, too, he loved her. She appeared to him to be very beautiful and kind. "Whose house is this?" he asked, at last, watching Sieglinde wherever she went. "It is the house of Hunding, the hunter," she answered, "and I am Sieglinde, his wife." "I wonder will he welcome a wounded and defenceless guest?" he asked with some anxiety. "What? art thou wounded?" she demanded with solicitude. "Show me thy wounds that I may help thee." "Nay," he cried, leaping to his feet; "my wounds are slight and I should still have been fighting my foes, but my sword and shield were shattered and I was left at their mercy. They were many and I could not fight them single-handed and weaponless. I must now be on my way. I am but an ill-fated fellow, and I would not bring my bad luck upon thee and thy house." He started to go out of the door. "Thou canst not bring ill-fate to me," she answered, looking at him sadly. "I am not happy here." "If that be true," he said, pausing to regard her tenderly, "then I shall remain," and he turned back into the house.