“Tell me, O Dwarf,” he began, “what was that race which Wotan loved, and yet treated harshly?”
“The Volsungs,” answered Mime, partially recovering from his terror. “Siegmund and Sieglinde were descended from the race. Siegfried is their son—the strongest Volsung who ever lived.”
“Well answered!” said the Wanderer. “Now listen and reply! A sly Nibelung watches Siegfried, knowing that he is fated to kill Fafner, the Dragon. What sword must he use to kill him?”
“Nothung!” cried Mime, eagerly. “Nothung is the name of the sword. Siegmund once drew it from a great tree. It was broken by the spear of Wotan. Now a clever smith”—and he rubbed his hands gleefully—“understands all this, and he hoards well the splinters, knowing that with these alone can Siegfried kill the Dragon.”
The Wanderer burst out into laughter.
“But who will mend the sword?” he asked.
Mime sprang to his feet in despair, filled with terror and rage; for that was the one question he could not answer—that was his riddle, his everlasting mystery.
Quietly Wotan rose from the hearth where he had been sitting.
“I gave you three chances to ask me the question which I have now asked you. Foolishly, you let them all slip by. Listen while I answer it! Only he who has never felt fear can forge Nothung anew.”
He strode to the door of the cave, and there paused, looking back.