Alone through the great hall of the Gibichungs wandered Gutrune, awaiting Siegfried’s return from the hunt. Going to Brünnhilde’s chamber in the hope of finding a companion in her anxiety, she saw that the room was empty, and remembered that she had seen, some time before, a woman’s figure descend towards the Rhine. As she thought of her brother’s wild, strange bride, Gutrune shuddered. She moved restlessly about the hall, listening for the clear horn-call that always heralded the coming of the Volsung. Suddenly, Hagen appeared with a look of triumph on his dark, evil face; and, directly afterwards, many people came running, in wild confusion, carrying torches, and lamenting the hero’s death. And, finally, came the warriors bearing Siegfried upon a great bier. With wails of anguish, Gutrune flung herself on her knees beside her hero, and pushed Gunther away wildly when he strove to comfort her, calling him the murderer of her husband. But Gunther denied the charge, and pointed to Hagen, accusing him, in heart-broken tones, of having slain their hero. Hagen answered, with calm defiance, that he had, indeed, killed Siegfried, and that he now demanded as booty the Ring that gleamed upon the finger of the Volsung. Fiercely, Gunther claimed the circlet for his sister, as widow’s dower. Hagen sprang forward to attack him, and the half-brothers fought wildly together for the Rhinegold Ring. At last, with an exultant gesture, Hagen raised his sword above his head; for, at his feet lay Gunther, the Gibichung—dead. “The Ring!” cried the Nibelung’s son, and he sprang to the bier. But, ere he could touch Siegfried’s hand where gleamed the circlet, it raised itself threateningly. And even Hagen started back in terror. On all sides people trembled with fear and horror. Gutrune screamed wildly as her eyes encountered her brother’s body on the ground. Into this place of sorrow and confusion came a tall woman, robed in white, with a face most beautiful in its gentleness and strength; and before so calm and tender a gaze the crowd parted, as though in awe, to let the woman pass. It was Brünnhilde, who had heard from the water-maidens everything that had happened on the shores of the Rhine. She understood all now. She understood that he had never been false, knowingly; that his last loving words had been of her—and her alone. And she had come, with her great wisdom and her great love, to bring peace to the turbulent hearts gathered about Siegfried’s bier. She stood for a long time gazing down on the face of her hero—“The highest hero of worlds,” she called him. She looked around her and smiled upon the confusion and sorrow, and, before the tenderness and solemn sweetness of that smile, the confusion seemed to die away and the sorrow seemed but as something too small to be shown. Piteously, Gutrune sobbed out words of regret for the wrong which had been done Brünnhilde, and reproached Hagen for his share in the plot. But Brünnhilde hardly heard.