“Bad is the prospect for the fulfilment of my promise to the weeping Rhine Children,” said Logi, softly.
“Your promise does not bind me,” said the King of the Gods. “I shall keep the Ring.”
“Hand over the ransom!” cried Fafner, loudly.
“Never!” said Wotan.
“Then Friea is ours!” roared the giants, and they grasped her once more.
The gods, in chorus, begged Wotan to give the wranglers the treasure, but he was deaf to their entreaties. His eyes were fastened upon the bright Ring’s glitter; he was blind to all else.
Suddenly the light seemed to die out from the world. All grew dark. From a black chasm in the rocks rose a woman’s figure in a strange halo of blue light. Her face was pale, with a look of deepest mystery upon it. Lifting her hand, she spoke in low, solemn tones to Wotan:
“Hear my warning! Avoid the Ring, with its terrible spell! Heed me, O Wotan!”
“Who are you who warn me?” asked the god.
“I understand all things; wisest in all the world am I. The witch-wife Erda, men call me, Mother of the Norns. Listen, listen, listen! A day of dusk and gloom is coming for the gods. Beware of the Ring!”