And dost thou fear Them less for that? Their curses still may fall Upon us, though their blessings are withheld, And willingly I sacrificed the ram. Oh, wouldst thou kill one too! Thy need is great Above all others. BRUNHILDA. Mine? FRIGGA. Another time. I long had meant to tell thee, and today At last the hour has come. BRUNHILDA. I've always thought That at thy death the hour would come to me, So did not importune thee. FRIGGA. Mark me now! From our volcano came there suddenly An aged man and left with me a child, A tablet, too, with runes. [Illustration: Peter Cornelius Title Page of the Nibelungenlied] BRUNHILDA. 'Twas in the night? FRIGGA. How dost thou know? BRUNHILDA. When on thee falls the moonlight--On thy face, thou speakest oft aloud, Betraying much. FRIGGA. And thou didst harken to me? At midnight we were watching with our dead--Our beauteous Queen. The old man's hair was white, And longer than a woman's. Like a cloak It hung about him, flowing softly down. BRUNHILDA. The spirit of the mountain! FRIGGA. Naught know I!-- No syllable he spoke. The little maid Reached forth her hands and grasped the golden crown That glittered brightly o'er the dead Queen's brow. We marveled that it fitted her. BRUNHILDA. The child? FRIGGA. The little maid; and it was none too large, Nor later did it bind her. BRUNHILDA. 'Twas like mine! FRIGGA. Like thine it was! And, yet more wonderful. The child was like the maid that lay there dead Within the mother's arms and disappeared As had it ne'er existed--yes, so like That only by the breathing could we know The living from the dead. It seemed to us That nature must have formed one body twice, With life for one child only. BRUNHILDA. Had the Queen A new-born baby in her arms? FRIGGA. Her life She gave to bear her child, and with her died The little maid. BRUNHILDA. Thou didst not tell me that. FRIGGA. I never thought to tell thee. Sorrow broke The mother's heart that she could never show Her baby to her lord. For many years This priceless joy in vain he had desired, And, just a month before the child was born, A sudden death o'ertook him. BRUNHILDA. Tell me more! FRIGGA. We sought the aged man, but he was gone. The glowing mountain that had been cleft through As one might split an apple, slowly now Was drawn together there before our eyes. BRUNHILDA. The old man came no more? FRIGGA. Now hark to me! Next morning to the grave we bore our Queen; But when the priest was ready to baptize The little maid, his arm fell helpless down, Nor could he touch her forehead with the dew Of holy water, and his good right arm He never lifted more. BRUNHILDA. What, never more! FRIGGA.