Gunther started up wildly as Siegfried whispered the name of “Brünnhilde”; for the Rhine Chief understood all now, and realized in that short time what deep wickedness it must have been that had parted the noble Volsung and his bride. There had been no deceit, no treachery, no broken Oath of Brotherhood—none of the wickedness had been on the young hero’s side. Gunther dropped his head in horror. But Hagen took a step forward. “See you those Ravens?” he said, slowly, pointing to two great black birds flying upward from the Rhine. They were Wotan’s King-Ravens, which had been sent out to bring tidings back to Walhalla, and which were returning there with news that the Dusk of the Gods was at hand. Siegfried turned to gaze after them as they flew. It was growing late. The yellow afternoon light was deepening to red gold. The sun was setting. The Ravens flew away, their broad black wings bathed in the ruddy light, and it was like the light of a great fire. “They arouse in me revenge!” cried Hagen, and he raised his spear and stabbed the young Volsung in the back. Siegfried staggered wildly; and then, raising his shield, tried to crush Hagen with it. But then even his great strength left him, and he fell back upon the ground, while the warriors drew near with exclamations of horror and faces on which a great awe had fallen. “I have been revenged,” said Hagen, and passed up the rocks and out of sight amid the growing dusk. The sunset was as red as blood now. There was an ominous look in its lurid light—yet a strange peace also. It lay on the head and figure of the young hero like a king’s crown and robe. [Illustration: AFTER SIEGFRIED’S DEATH] In the hush that had fallen, Siegfried raised himself upon his arm and spoke. He spoke of Brünnhilde, his bride; again he seemed to be on the Walküres’ rock; again she lay before him asleep; again he awakened her with a kiss. He seemed to look into her eyes, to hear her voice; she was his once more. And with the words “Brünnhilde beckons to me! Greeting!” Siegfried sank back and died. And the last light from the setting sun went out of the sky. It was very dark—very dark and silent. The warriors raised the hero upon their shoulders and bore him up the rocks. After a while the moon rose, and the pale light touched the helmets of the men and Siegfried’s armor as the procession passed up through the shadows. A mist was rising from the Rhine, and it was very still. Siegfried was dead, the last of his race—the noble race of Volsungs. He was the bravest of them all, this son of Siegmund and Sieglinde, who had so loved each other. He had done many great deeds with his good sword Nothung. He had been a courageous man and the highest hero in the world, and he had won the love of Brünnhilde, the noblest woman ever born. And he was dead—Siegfried, the Volsung. [Music: Death Motif] [Music: Motif of the Dusk of the Gods] CHAPTER V THE LAST TWILIGHT