So both the Robber and his servant, the maiden Sieglinde, went away, leaving Siegmund alone by the hearth, sad and a little perplexed. For Sieglinde, as she left the hall, had pointed swiftly towards the sword-hilt buried in the tree. The fire leaped up wildly as he stood gazing towards the oak, and the light touched the bright hilt and painted it red for a moment, then died once more. Siegmund dreamily wondered if the light on the steel had been left by the glance Sieglinde had cast towards it. For you see he had fallen in love with this lovely woman, who looked at him so kindly, and whose face was as fair and beautiful as the sun. The gold and rosy flashes from the fire grew fainter, the shadows deepened, and Siegmund fell asleep. Now perhaps you wonder why he stayed there instead of going out into the night, where he would be safe. There were three good reasons to keep him. In the first place, he was too brave a hero to fly from danger; and, in the second place, he did not want to leave the beautiful maiden alone in the Robber’s power; and the third reason was as good a one as either of the others. Hunding had said: “Custom makes you safe as a guest in my house,” which meant that it would be both unfair and wrong if he, Hunding, killed a stranger taking shelter under his roof. This was called the Law of Hospitality, and the law was never taken advantage of by any honorable guest. So, if Siegmund had run away after Hunding had so well observed the Law of Hospitality he would have been dishonorable as well as cowardly, and it was just as though he had given a promise that he would not go away that night. In the meantime Siegmund lay asleep. From an inner room came the beautiful maiden swiftly to his side. Awaking him, she told him to hurry away while there was yet time. She said that she had sprinkled some sleep spices into Hunding’s wine, and that he would slumber soundly and long; and she begged the guest to go away quietly into the night and save himself. Finally, she told him of the Wanderer who had come and struck the sword into the oak-tree, and told him, too, how she had waited in vain for some hero who would draw forth the sword and rescue her. Siegmund said that he would claim the sword for his own, and drag it from the tree, and, as he spoke, the door opened wide. Perhaps the good fairies unlatched it. Without, it was very still; the storm had ceased, and the moon was shining wondrously. Then Sieglinde, looking in his face, seemed to see there a resemblance to some one she had known long ago, and, gazing into his eyes, she asked him if he were really a Wolfing. “No, a Volsung!” replied the hero, proudly. And she cried out in joy: “A Volsung! Are you, too, a Volsung—one of my race? It was for you, indeed, that the Wanderer struck the sword into the oak.”