He spoke of Brünnhilde, his bride; again he seemed to be on the Walküres’ rock; again she lay before him asleep; again he awakened her with a kiss. He seemed to look into her eyes, to hear her voice; she was his once more.
And with the words “Brünnhilde beckons to me! Greeting!” Siegfried sank back and died. And the last light from the setting sun went out of the sky.
It was very dark—very dark and silent. The warriors raised the hero upon their shoulders and bore him up the rocks. After a while the moon rose, and the pale light touched the helmets of the men and Siegfried’s armor as the procession passed up through the shadows. A mist was rising from the Rhine, and it was very still.
Siegfried was dead, the last of his race—the noble race of Volsungs. He was the bravest of them all, this son of Siegmund and Sieglinde, who had so loved each other. He had done many great deeds with his good sword Nothung. He had been a courageous man and the highest hero in the world, and he had won the love of Brünnhilde, the noblest woman ever born. And he was dead—Siegfried, the Volsung.
Death Motif
Motif of the Dusk of the Gods