Mime, delighted, told him of Fafner, and said that the Dragon would teach him, or any one else, the art of fearing, and ended by promising to lead him to Hate Hole the next day.
“Does the world lie that way?” asked the boy.
“To Hate Hole it is close at hand,” responded the wicked little Nibelung, beginning to feel rapture glow in his heart.
But, when Siegfried again demanded the sword, the smith fell once more into despair, wailing that he could not shape it, that only one who knew not fear could forge it anew.
Straight to the hearth sprang the strong young Volsung with the splinters of Nothung.
“My father’s blade will I forge!” he cried; and he began to move about merrily, brightening the fire and hunting for the file with which to work on the broken blade.
Mime watched him with wondering eyes. So swiftly and well did he work that even the clever smith could not understand. And, as he dragged at the rope of the bellows and blew up the fire in the forge, this is the song that Siegfried sang:
“Nothung, Nothung, notable sword!
Who did thy bright steel shiver?
To shreds I have shattered the noble blade,