The Valkyries

He paused on his foot and looked at her.

"That would be but poor thanks for thy kindness," said he; "for wherever I go I bring sorrow with me, sorrow and ill-luck. If thou wert my enemy I would stay; it is because thou hast been good to me and gracious that I go, taking my ill-luck with me, that it should not abide untowardly in thy house. So I delay not, but go," and he turned quickly and went to the door.

Then when his hand was on the latch, and in the next moment he would have gone forth into the night, and out of her sight for ever, her heart again would not suffer her to remain dumb. Little of sorrow or ill-luck could he bring to her while she abode still in the house of Hunding, for all the sorrow in the world, or so it seemed to her, was hers already, nor was there any ill-luck which he could bring which should be comparable to that which was ever about her house and about her bed, and sat at meat with her.

"There is no sorrow thou couldest bring me," said she, "for it is mine already. Look on these walls; they are builded firm, and it is of hate they are builded. Sorrow and hate and ill-luck were the masons, and they have built well. Look! thou wilt find no cranny nor chink. O, I have a well-established house!" and she laughed with sudden bitterness. "So stay," she said, and her voice quivered like an aspen leaf.

By now the logs that Sieglinde had cast on the hearth against Hunding's return were fully caught, and loud laughed the firelight on the walls. In that brightness they saw each other more clearly yet, and the long look that had passed between them was again renewed. Other fires, too, were burning, for each now felt much pity for the other – Sieglinde for the stranger in that he was lonely and the quarry of ill-luck; the stranger for her in that when love should have been blossoming in her home, the strong poisonous flowers of hate were there instead. But as she spoke, the latch fell from his fingers, and he slowly returned and sat down by the hearth.

"Yet I have warned thee," said he. "Woe is my name, and if thou fearest not Woe, thou fearest not me. I will wait for Hunding to thank him for the rest and refreshment I have found in his house."

Then though Sieglinde's heart rejoiced that she had stayed his going, yet she was troubled. For though nothing could have been more right than that he should wait for Hunding, her lawful lord, yet she knew why she had bade him stay, for the woman in her called for man. And in silence she lit the lamp and placed it on the table; and in troubled silence she made all ready for Hunding's coming. Not long did she wait, for in a short space she heard the stroke of his horse's hoofs on the stones without; she heard him lead the beast to the stable and shut the door; she heard his step again outside and the jar of the lifted latch.

Then she looked once more at the stranger and he at her, and with that the door opened, and Hunding, black as the night outside, stood there. Then seeing a stranger by the hearth he paused, with the door still swung open, and looked with an unspoken question at his wife. From without came in the warm breath of the spring night, and the dwelling-place was filled with it, as the vats are filled with the odours of the wine when the vintage time has come, and in the heart of Sieglinde the flowers of hate burst into passionate blossom, and with that growth was mingled another.

CHAPTER III

THE STORY OF THE STRANGER

For a moment there was silence. Then said Sieglinde: "I found him here by the hearth, Hunding; he was faint, his foes pursued him."

Hunding looked darkly at her, and more darkly yet at the stranger. He on Hunding's entrance had turned himself, and risen from his seat, as if to greet his host; but even as his greeting was on his lips he had paused, for there was something in that black look which made him feel some echo of Sieglinde's hate.

"It is ever well to help the helpless," said Hunding evilly. "Thou gavest him refreshment?"

"Even so," said she. "He was my guest – your guest; faint by the hearth I found him. He waited for your coming." Not a smile of welcome did Hunding give, for it was not his way to smile; and already in his black heart hatred blackened towards his guest, and suspicion, ere yet it came, cast its shadow. And as his host did not greet him, neither did the stranger greet his host. Yet he could not bear that the woman should be blamed for what he had done. His was the blame.

"I was shelterless," said he, looking at Hunding. "She sheltered me. I was faint: she revived me. Is there blame in that?"

"Blame? Who talks of blame?" said Hunding more blackly yet. "My hearth is holy: not otherwise has any guest of mine found it, and guest of mine art thou. Inviolable are these laws."

And without more words he turned to Sieglinde, who, as her custom was, took his weapons of hunting and hung them up on the ash-tree beneath the gleaming sword-hilt Hunding hated the sword-hilt, for he had not been able to move it, and he knew that in this world there was but one who could. On that day also he knew trouble would come to his house. But he told Sieglinde to bring supper for him and his guest, and as she moved about her work, he stood beneath the ash-stem and looked from her to the stranger and back again. Each was cast in noble mould, and they were strangely like the one to the other, for the head of each was bright with sunny hair, and in the grey eye of each was seated some secret sorrow. Tall was his wife, and tall the stranger, and the skin of each was fair as the skin of a child, and as smooth. For himself he felt like a base-born man in the presence of the gently bred; and as he looked he hated each, and the shadow of his suspicion grew darker. Then he turned to the stranger, and speaking like a man who conceals nought —

"Thy way has been long," he said, "and thou hast no horse. Where hast thou come, and whither goest thou? What journey has thus travel-stained thee?"

Then said the stranger: "The storm and the foe have driven me far, and by what way I know not. And where I have come I know not, for my way was long, and the heavens and earth were blinded with tempest. Tell me then where I have come."

And as Hunding looked on him again, the likeness of the stranger to his wife smote on him like a blow; and again he looked from one to the other, as Sieglinde brought in venison and the fresh-baked bread, and put them ready on the table. But he answered him with seeming frankness.

"It is to Hunding's house thou hast come," he said, "and under the roof of Hunding thou hast rested. Not here is the home of my kindred, but far away to northward; and they of my blood are mighty and many. Be seated then, guest of mine, and in return tell me thy name."

So the stranger seated himself, and when he was seated Hunding sat down also, and Sieglinde, who had finished the serving, sat by her husband opposite to their guest, and her eyes dwelt ever on him very steadfastly, and his on her, and neither took heed of Hunding, who watched them both. Eagerly she waited for him to tell them his name, expecting she knew not what; but as her eyes looked on him, she forgot even that Hunding had asked it, for she forgot all else except that in front of her and at her husband's table was seated the fair-haired stranger. As for him, his eyes were fixed in thought, as if he meditated on his answer. Yet since it was a strange thing that a guest should not tell his name to his host, again Hunding questioned him.

"Surely I would not press aught unwelcome on my guest," said he, "if he wills not to tell me. But see how my wife also waits for your answer. She too would fain know the name of her guest and mine;" and again he looked at Sieglinde.

But she took not her eyes off the stranger, for the sight of him fed her heart, making her content. And though she cared not to know his name, she could not but do her husband's bidding, and she too asked him his name, if so be he would be willing to tell it.

Then again for a long moment was the stranger still silent, but at the last he raised his eyes and looked at her, and some secret sympathy passed like a wave between them; and he spoke to her only.

"My name is Wehwalt, the man of Woe," said he, "for mine is the portion of sorrow, and my father was called 'The Wolf.' He begat twins, a sister and myself; but while I was yet so young that I scarce knew her name or the name of my mother, the Wolf, my father, took me into the forest, there to rear me up to be strong and warlike, even as himself. Strong too and warlike were his foes, and there were many of them. Then, after years, one day he took me home, but no home found we there, but only the burnt ashes of what had been. There lay my mother, fallen and dead in defence of the hearth, but of my sister no trace was left. Such was my home-coming."

He paused, but took not his eyes from Sieglinde's face, and his voice rose in sudden fire as he went on with his tale.

"The treacherous Niedings had done this," he cried, "and deadly was their work. Bitter and relentless they pursued us, and for years my father and I lived a hunted life in the forest, beset with our foes. Yet ever his courage and his cunning avoided the snares they set for us, and, by the side of the Wolf, the Whelp grew up through boyhood to early manhood."

Thereat he paused again, and turned to Hunding.

"That Wolfs whelp tells you the tale," said he.

Now at the words of the stranger the suspicion that had hung over Hunding's heart like a poised hawk grew suddenly nearer, as if it stooped to its prey, for even in the manner in which the stranger told them his sister had been lost to him, in that manner was his own wife won. Well he remembered how the mother fought for the daughter, but at the end she was slain, and the house burnt, and the girl carried off by force; and again the strange likeness of the two struck on his heart. As for his wife Sieglinde, her face was a mask, and she only gazed at the stranger with wide, grey eyes, and what she thought no man knew, and least of all her husband. Also he had heard stories of the Wolf and the Whelp, as the forest folk called them, and now the Whelp told the tale himself. But since he must needs know more yet, he curbed himself.

"Wehwalt," said he; "Wehwalt, the Wolfs whelp, it is a strange story that thou tellest us. Of thy name in stories of strife and war I have heard men tell. Yet saw I never the Wolf thy father nor his son till to-day."

He would have said more, but Sieglinde, her eyes all aflame, interrupted him. "Tell us the rest," she cried, and her voice strangled in her throat, for if Hunding remembered how his wife was carried off from the burnt home, should not she remember? "Tell us where thy father is to-day? Where is his home? Is it near – is it near?" she cried.

Then the stranger shook his head.

"Thou shalt hear," he said, "and I will tell thee all. For after the burning of the house, and the murder of my mother, and the seizing of my sister, ever more fiercely did the accursed Niedings press on us, for the blood, maybe, had whetted them. But the Wolf was ever stronger and more cunning than the men, and day after day he drove them through the forest, and in his paths the dead lay thick. Even as a ship scatters the spray in clouds before its bows, even so they fell off spent from his advance, and he passed on over them, I with him, heeding them as little, as they writhed in their death agonies, as the ship heeds the billows it ploughs through. Thus fared we till the day came when my father was not. A wolf-skin I found in the forest, but of him no trace. And whether he is dead I know not, or whether," and his eye brightened "whether he was not of mortal birth, and his work there was finished, and he went whither he would."

For a moment he paused, and on one side the eager grey eyes of the woman met his, and by her sat her husband, whose black eyes smouldered with hate that was scarce concealed. But in the light of the grey eyes he forgot the black.

"Wanting him," he said, "I left the forest and lived among men and women of civilized race. Yet wherever I went, whether I sought for friend only, or sought for wife, I prospered not, and he who should have been friend turned from me, and she whom I sought for wife thought scorn of me, for ill-luck was ever about my path. Did I think a thing right? That was enough: to all others the deed seemed foul. Did I think a deed false? To all others it appeared fair. And thus I was at war with the whole world. About my path watched hate, and anger against me grew like weeds in the bush. Did I seek for joy? Bitterness was mine, and woe and sorrow. Thus came I to call myself Wehwalt, for woe was my fate. So I named myself to fit my fate."

Then Hunding wiped his mouth, for he had made an end of eating, and laughed bitterly.

"Truly then thou hast named thyself," said he, "if none to whom thou goest as a guest is glad at thy coming, and slow to love thee, and grieves not when thou goest And indeed such seems to be thy case."

At that Sieglinde turned and faced her husband, as she had never faced him before.

"Ah!" she cried, "there speaks the coward, Hunding. For who but a coward would insult a man who is alone, and who is weaponless?"

Then she turned to the stranger again.

"Guest of mine and of Hunding's," she said, "thy tale is but half told. How came it that thou art without thine arms? Where is thy shield and thy sword and thy spear, that thou goest at the mercy of every coward?"

At that Hunding laughed, for he was minded to be amused. But she heeded not, and but listened for the stranger's words.

"It was thus that I lost my shield and spear and sword," said he; "for I went to help and to rescue, if so be I could, a maid whom her kin wished to marry to a man she loved not. To me she came for help, and help I gave her, for I bethought me of how the Wolf would descend like a hill-top storm on to his foes, and I, his whelp, could do no other way. So hewed I and hacked among the cruel kin, for rage was in my heart, since it was by such unhallowed wooing that I had lost my sister, and I cleared the homestead of her evil clan. Two brothers had she, who would make the marriage, and for them I made a funeral instead of a marriage for their sister. But at that – ill-luck still following me – the tenderness of the maid awoke, and she wailed their loss, and her grief conquered her erstwhile cry for help. Thus for me who had delivered her she had only curses. Then, as I waited there, from every side swarmed out the kith and the kin of those whom I had done to death, so that the forest was thick with them. Yet the maid still bewailed her brothers, and cursed me for their death, and cursed herself for that she had bidden me to aid her, and so compass it. With my sword I still defended her, for her kin were thirsty for her blood, and with my spear I sent more to their account, till at the end my sword was shattered, and my spear sundered. Then with these eyes I saw them murder the maiden as she still bewailed her brethren; and since I could do no more, I fled from before their faces, while she, dead, crowned the heaps of dead. So fled I, and came hither."

Then again he paused, and looked at Sieglinde with a pitiful entreaty.

"Thus is it with me," he said, "and thus it has always been with me. Am I not right then to name myself by a name of woe? Has peace or joy any lot with me?"

And the stranger got up, for he suddenly could bear her gaze no longer, and walked to the hearth. And she, when the magic of his gaze was withdrawn, turned pale suddenly, moved more deeply than she knew had been possible. Only Hunding still eyed him with growing hate and certainty. Already he knew enough, and his vengeance, so he swore to himself, should soon be complete. And he rose also and faced the stranger.

"Truly ill-luck has guided thee here," he said; "and ill-luck planted thy feet when they came to the house of Hunding. For have I not often heard of the race to which thou belongest? And thou spakest truly when thou saidst that thy coming gave no joy to any host, for thou art of a wild, unhallowed breed, whose right is wrong in the eyes of all the world of men, whose true is false, whose false is true. All day have I been nearer to thee than thou knewest of, and the adventure thou hast told us is not yet complete."

With that he drew nearer to the stranger.