The Valkyries

"It is now my turn to tell my guest of myself," he said, "and let him know where my feet have borne me. It was kin of mine whom thou hast slaughtered in impotent defence of a maid of my race; my kin are the brothers you killed, and all day I have been on the track of him who killed them. But all day have I been too late, though fast on the trail. Yet when I return home, whom find I at my hearth? Him, the murderer of my kin. Thus there is blood already between us, and ever shall be."

At his words his wife Sieglinde rose with terror and pity in her face, and drew near to the two men. But Hunding heeded her not.

"To-night," he said, "thou art guest at mine; that must needs be so. But at dawn to-morrow, Wolfs whelp, I am thy host no more, and thou shalt answer for the blood of my kindred which thou hast shed. Hast thou no arms? So much the worse, for thou wouldest be safer for a sword, and at sunrise we meet. To-night we are host and guest, but a dawn to-morrow be ready to meet me as the avenger of my kindred."

At these words Sieglinde could contain herself no more, but came quickly up, and placed herself between the two men.

"No, no!" she cried. "It cannot be, Hunding."

Then his wrath flamed up. "Hence, go hence," he cried; "get to thy work, and make ready my night-drink; go from the hall."

At his words she fell back, still pondering with her quick woman's wit as to how she could avert this. From the table she took the drinking-horn, and from the cupboard the spices with which she made the hot, fragrant draught which Hunding loved. And even as she turned to leave the hall, sudden and high like a summer fire in the forest her love for the stranger flamed in her heart, and with love a sudden wild up-springing of hope. He still stood by the hearth, scarcely heeding Hunding's words, for his eyes ever followed her, and as she was even now on the threshold, she cast one long glance at him, and then, as if leading his eye thither, looked to where the hilt of the sword in the ash-trunk glimmered in the firelight. Then she looked back to him, and knew that he understood not, for how should he understand?

But Hunding saw that she still lingered, and with furious finger pointed her forth, and she left them. Then he took his arms from the tree.

"Words for women, and weapons for men," said he. "Wolfs whelp, we meet to-morrow."

And he strode from the hall into his bed-chamber, leaving the stranger alone.

CHAPTER IV

THE RECOGNITION

So Hunding went forth and left the stranger alone with the leaping flames and shadows from the hearth. Long pondered he on what the day had brought forth, and what should be the burden of the morrow; but through all his thoughts there rose like a flame of dancing fire the thought of the woman Sieglinde, and of his love for her, and how he could help her to leave this house of hate. Weaponless was he, and her husband had mocked at him for it. Then his thoughts went backwards to the old wild days in the forest when he and his father, whom he had called by the name he was known to men, were the swift terror of their foes. And at that a sudden hope sprang up within him, for he remembered how his father had told him that when his need was sorest, a sword should be near him. Surely now his need was sore enough, yet where was the sword? At that he cried aloud on his father's name, the secret name known but to him, and "Walse, father Walse!" he cried, "show me the sword, for my need is sore."

No voice answered him, but the stillness was broken by the sound of the logs on the hearth suddenly falling together, and from the embers went up a sudden flame illuminating the walls, and gleaming on the sword-hilt Then remembered he that Sieglinde's last look had directed his eyes there, but from where he sat he could see the gleam only, and knew not yet that it was a sword. Only he thought to himself that her last look had fallen there, and something of the gleam of her eyes still lingered there, making the dark stem bright But the gleam was very steady, and he wondered at it.

Then the flames from the hearth grew low again, and the shadows thickened in the hall. But something of the brightness still lingered within him, and he thought of how the eyes of the woman had shone on him all the evening when they sat at meat, and it seemed to him as if his soul, on which long night had settled, had been bathed in the beams of morning. Light and hope she had brought to his darkened heart; for one day he had basked in sun-shine, and ere yet his sun had sunk behind the hills again, one last evening ray had so illumined the ash-stem, that something of the light had still lingered there. Still lingered it also in his heart, though she had gone, and though the shadows of his woes crowded fast upon him, even as upon the walls of the dwelling-place they gathered in growing battalions, as the flames on the hearth sank ever lower. Yet still he sat there with open unseeing eyes. No thought of sleep was his. How could he sleep when Sieglinde abode within the house of hate? Round him the shadows grew and thickened, and at length the last sparks on the hearth were quenched, and through the open chimney only there filtered in a little greyness, so that though all was dark, yet the density of that blackness was greater here and less there.

How long he sat there, alert though lost in reverie, he knew not, but at the end a little noise fell on his ear and the door of the bed-chamber was opened, and framed in darkness he saw there a white figure. And his heart so hammered within him, that it seemed to him that the noise of it must awaken Hunding. Yet he moved not, neither spoke, and the figure came nearer. Then a voice that he knew fell like pearly rain on the stillness.

"Sleepest thou?" she whispered.

Then he could stay still no longer, but sprang up noiselessly.

"I?" he stammered, "I sleep, when thou seekest me?"

"Listen," said she. "In Hunding's night-draught I have mixed a sleeping potion, and thus the whole night is before us to devise a plan for thy safety."

"Safety?" whispered he. "With thee is my safety, and my – " And then, because he was Hunding's guest, he paused. Yet he was Hunding's foe at daybreak.

"But a sword, a sword!" she cried.

"Ah! there is no need to speak low; we shall not waken Hunding, for I brewed his drink strong. Ah! could I but bring thee the sword, for a sword waits here for him who is fit to seize it. It is near to thee now, and truly thine is an hour of sore need."

"What sayest thou? What is it thou hast said?" cried the stranger.

So she told him the story of her marriage feast, of how another stranger had strode to the board, and flung the sword in the ash-stem.

"There, there," she said, pointing at it, looking where she had looked before; "and one, only one shall be able to move it. Ah! when he comes – he who is ordained – then shall my vengeance for the years of sorrow I have passed in the house of Hunding be sweet to my mouth. For every tear I have shed here, my mouth shall be full of laughter and joy; for all the tears that I could not shed out of very bitterness and drought of soul, joy shall be mine too deep for smile or laughter. My friend, the friend of my soul, him I wait for, and with him there will be peace and victory for us both."

Then the stranger, knowing that there could be but one, and that his father whom he had called "The Wolf," who could cast a sword as the woman had said, and remembering that he had told him that in the hour of his sorest need a sword should be near him, knew that this was the sword of which he spoke, and that it was he who should draw it forth. And knowing that, he gave no more thought to it, for the woman had said that he who should draw it forth was the friend of her heart, and that knowledge for the moment drowned all else, and covered his soul with a huge, soft billow of joy, so he gave no heed to the sword, but only to her who stood by him. And in the exultation of his love he laughed aloud, and passionately drew her to him.

"And that is I, that is I!" he cried, "O crown and flower of womanhood! All my hopes in thee are fulfilled, and all my failures in thee are mended. Hard and long has been the way that led us each to the other. Lo! I heal the wounds which wrong has made, and thy hand soothes and banishes all my woe. Shame has been thy portion in the house of hate. Hunding thy husband! No mumbling vow hallows that unnatural union. Thou hast called for vengeance, and vengeance is at thy side, and the arm of vengeance thus wound round thee makes thee strong. But dearer and nearer I approach to thee than that. My hand bears vengeance for thee, but my heart bears love. Sieglinde! Sieglinde!"

Even as they stood thus, in the first transport of the knowledge that they loved, the great door of the hall swung open noiselessly, for maybe Hunding had not closed it when he returned home, and Sieglinde started in sudden alarm.

"What is that?" she cried. "Who went? Who has come?"

Slowly the door swung wide, and a great flood of moonlight poured in upon the pair, bathing them in its beams. High rose the moon in a cloudless heaven, and the warm breeze of spring whispered through the bushes and filled the hall. At length and at last the winter had ceased, and spring, that moment of all the year when the sap stirs in the trees, and the birds are mated, and lion seeks lioness in the Libyan hills, and man turns to woman and woman to man, spring was upon them in its overpowering fulness and sweetness. None may resist its compulsion, nor did they resist. Gently he drew her to him, and whether he spoke or sang she knew not, or whether it was only the echo of her thoughts she heard. But it seemed to her that his voice spoke.

"None went, but one has come," said he. "Look you, this house is the house of hate no longer, but the place of spring. For May has awoke, and the storms are hushed, and winter is over, and the glory of spring spreads round us. He wakes the warm winds, and as he wakes them they waft him on, and at his coming the wayside blossoms with its yearly miracle. Hedge and heath, field and forest are redolent with flowers, and as he moves across the world, laughter hails him on all sides. O! the time of the singing birds is come, and the breath of the earth is warm and sweet. Spring lies among the bushes, and where his warm body is pressed the flowers spring, and the young shoots of the trees, when they see his bosom rise and fall to the beat of his heart, put out their amorous branches to touch his fair form. Along the world strike his smiles, and with them, his sole weapons, he makes the whole world mad. The flash of his eye slays the winter, and at his glance the storms are hushed. All doors fly open to meet his coming, even as the door of the house of hate opened just now of its own accord, and spring is here.

"And who walks with him? Love his sister. In our hearts she slept, and when he came the doors of our hearts were opened also, and she laughs when she sees the light. The walls that held us are crumbled, and she is free. Spring the brother meets love the sister, and they meet here on the threshold of our hearts. They have found each other, and we have found each other."

And whether she replied to him he knew not, or whether it was only the echo of his thoughts he heard, but it seemed to him that her voice spake.

"Spring," she said. "O spring, my brother, how have I sorrowed for thee and sought thee. Long has winter held us both, but when first I saw thee, how with love and I knew not what dread my heart was drawn to thee. Friendless was I, and he who was nearest to me was nearest also in hate. At length, at length thou earnest, and at the first glance, I knew that thou wast mine, and all the secret treasure of my heart, all that I am, was poured out for thee. Friendless was I, and frost-bound of heart and utterly lonely. Then, O my friend, thou earnest!"

And wonder and awe at the greatness and might of the gift that the spring had brought to both fell on them, and for a long while they stood thus content, if so be that lovers are ever content, in gazing at each other. Then the full love surged strong within them, so that speech could not be withheld, and Sieglinde wound her arms round his neck yet more closely.

"Let me gaze on thee," she whispered, "for my senses reel with longing for thee, and reel in that they are satisfied when they behold thee. I am on fire."

"Yea, the moon makes thee on fire," said he, "and like living fire thy hair burns round thee. I gaze and I gaze, and still I am unfilled."

Then Sieglinde with her hand swept back the hair from his forehead, and with her finger, smiling like a child, she traced the path of the blood in his temple.

"See how thy life spreads like the boughs of a tree, and puts forth shoots in thy temples," said she. "I am faint and sick with content, yet even now sounds warning in my ears. Though never before have I seen thy face, yet long before have I known it."

"I, too," said he, "when dreams of love visited my sleep, have dreamed of thee and of no other. With what sadness did I behold thee then. And now, and now – "

"And often," said she, "as I gazed in the black lake, where it is still and waveless, have I seen thy face as in some magic mirror that showed me what should be. And now, and now – "

And like a child she laughed for pleasure, and as the wonder of their love grew and deepened, so the silence of love, more musical than hearing itself, descended on them. That long draught of silence was wine to each thirsty soul, and when they had drunk deep of it, again Sieglinde spake.

"Speak to me, and let me be silent listening," she said, "for thy voice comes to me out of the early years when I was but a child. Thy laugh rings to me out of those golden mists before – before – " and she shuddered at the thought of Hunding.

"Speak thou," said he, "and let me listen."

Again the tide of love filled her full, even as the bitter creeks and marshes are flushed with the return of the water. Then struck her a sudden wild thought, and again she gazed earnestly into his eyes.

"Without words when thou came faint with weariness, thy glance looked so to me, till my despair was mild, and died in the light of the day that streamed on me. Wehwalt! ah no, such cannot be thy name. What is there of woe left? Not the shadow of the dream even!"

"No, I am Wehwalt no longer!" cried he, "for thy love has banished woe from me. That name which I gave myself is gone, for gone is woe. Ah, woman, woman, give me my name; tell me by what name I shall be called, and that, thy gift, and none other shall be my name."

Then looked she at him as one half lost in thought.

"And Wolf, was Wolf thy father's true name?" she asked.