Despairing, he murmured at the hopelessness of the task, which his rather unruly young charge had set him, and was sitting, a picture of discouragement and misery, when from the dark woods came a stranger clad as a wanderer, and bearing a great spear. He advanced to the door of the cave and asked in slow, grave tones for rest and shelter. Mime was at first frightened, then angry, and finally refused to harbor the strange guest, until the Wanderer made the following proposal: Mime was to ask him three questions, and if they were not correctly answered the host should have the privilege of cutting off his guest’s head. To this Mime consented, and, after a little thought, thus chose his first question: “Tell me what is the race down in the earth’s depths?” And the Wanderer made answer: “In the earth’s depths dwell the Nibelungs. Nibelheim is their land. Once they were ruled by Black Alberich, who owned a magic Ring by which he possessed untold wealth. What is the next question?” Again Mime pondered. “Now, Wanderer, since you know so much of the earth’s depths,” he said, “tell me what is the race that dwells upon its surface?” “The giants dwell upon its surface. Two of them, Fasolt and Fafner, fought for Black Alberich’s hoard. Fafner guards it now as a dragon. Put your third question!” “What race dwells in the sky above?” demanded Mime. And the Wanderer answered, majestically: “The gods dwell above in Walhalla. Their King is Wotan, who owns a spear made of the World-Ash. With that spear he rules the world.” And, as he spoke, Wotan, the Wanderer, struck the earth with the haft he held, and a peal of thunder crashed suddenly out upon the silence. As Mime cowered, terror-stricken, recognizing his guest, the Wanderer again spoke. He said it was only fair that he should have the same right he had given to Mime, and declared that he should ask three questions with the privilege of cutting off the Nibelung’s head if they were not answered aright. “Tell me, O Dwarf,” he began, “what was that race which Wotan loved, and yet treated harshly?” “The Volsungs,” answered Mime, partially recovering from his terror. “Siegmund and Sieglinde were descended from the race. Siegfried is their son—the strongest Volsung who ever lived.” “Well answered!” said the Wanderer. “Now listen and reply! A sly Nibelung watches Siegfried, knowing that he is fated to kill Fafner, the Dragon. What sword must he use to kill him?” “Nothung!” cried Mime, eagerly. “Nothung is the name of the sword. Siegmund once drew it from a great tree. It was broken by the spear of Wotan. Now a clever smith”—and he rubbed his hands gleefully—“understands all this, and he hoards well the splinters, knowing that with these alone can Siegfried kill the Dragon.” The Wanderer burst out into laughter. “But who will mend the sword?” he asked.