"The world's wealth," jeers another,
"Could be won by a man
If out of the Rhine-gold
He fashioned the Ring
That measureless might can bestow...
He who the sway
Of love forswears,
He who delight
Of love forbears,
Only he can master the magic
That forces the gold to a ring!"
"But we fear not thee—oh, no—for thou burnest in love for us."
So, lightly sing the Rhine-daughters; but Alberich, with his eyes on the gold, has heeded well their chatter. "The world's wealth," he mutters; "might I win that by the spell of the gold? Nay, though love be the forfeit, my cunning shall win me delight." Then terribly loud he cries,
"Mock ye, mock on!
The Nibelung neareth your toy;—"
then, clambering with haste to the summit,
"My hand, it quenches your light;
I wrest from the rock your gold;
I fashion the ring of revenge;
Now, hear me, ye floods—
Accursèd be love henceforth."
Tearing the gold from the rock, he plunges into the depths and disappears. After him dive the maidens. In vain. Far, far below, from Nibelheim rises the mocking laughter of Alberich, Lord of the Gold.
The scene changes. An open space on a mountain height becomes visible. The dawning day lights up a castle, glittering with pinnacles, on the top of a cliff. Below flows silent the Rhine. At one side, on a flowery bank, Wotan (Odin), king of the gods, lies sleeping, and Fricka (Frigga) his wife. They wake. Wotan turns toward his castle, new-built by the giants, and exults; but Fricka reminds him of the terrible price that is yet to be paid for its building,—none other, forsooth, than the person of Freia, the fair one, the goddess of spring and love, she who tends the garden of the gods, and whose apples, eaten from day to day, confer eternal youth,—she is the wage that the giants will claim.