"Ah!" she cried, "there speaks the coward, Hunding. For who but a coward would insult a man who is alone, and who is weaponless?"
Then she turned to the stranger again.
"Guest of mine and of Hunding's," she said, "thy tale is but half told. How came it that thou art without thine arms? Where is thy shield and thy sword and thy spear, that thou goest at the mercy of every coward?"
At that Hunding laughed, for he was minded to be amused. But she heeded not, and but listened for the stranger's words.
"It was thus that I lost my shield and spear and sword," said he; "for I went to help and to rescue, if so be I could, a maid whom her kin wished to marry to a man she loved not. To me she came for help, and help I gave her, for I bethought me of how the Wolf would descend like a hill-top storm on to his foes, and I, his whelp, could do no other way. So hewed I and hacked among the cruel kin, for rage was in my heart, since it was by such unhallowed wooing that I had lost my sister, and I cleared the homestead of her evil clan. Two brothers had she, who would make the marriage, and for them I made a funeral instead of a marriage for their sister. But at that—ill-luck still following me—the tenderness of the maid awoke, and she wailed their loss, and her grief conquered her erstwhile cry for help. Thus for me who had delivered her she had only curses. Then, as I waited there, from every side swarmed out the kith and the kin of those whom I had done to death, so that the forest was thick with them. Yet the maid still bewailed her brothers, and cursed me for their death, and cursed herself for that she had bidden me to aid her, and so compass it. With my sword I still defended her, for her kin were thirsty for her blood, and with my spear I sent more to their account, till at the end my sword was shattered, and my spear sundered. Then with these eyes I saw them murder the maiden as she still bewailed her brethren; and since I could do no more, I fled from before their faces, while she, dead, crowned the heaps of dead. So fled I, and came hither."
Then again he paused, and looked at Sieglinde with a pitiful entreaty.
"Thus is it with me," he said, "and thus it has always been with me. Am I not right then to name myself by a name of woe? Has peace or joy any lot with me?"
And the stranger got up, for he suddenly could bear her gaze no longer, and walked to the hearth. And she, when the magic of his gaze was withdrawn, turned pale suddenly, moved more deeply than she knew had been possible. Only Hunding still eyed him with growing hate and certainty. Already he knew enough, and his vengeance, so he swore to himself, should soon be complete. And he rose also and faced the stranger.
"Truly ill-luck has guided thee here," he said; "and ill-luck planted thy feet when they came to the house of Hunding. For have I not often heard of the race to which thou belongest? And thou spakest truly when thou saidst that thy coming gave no joy to any host, for thou art of a wild, unhallowed breed, whose right is wrong in the eyes of all the world of men, whose true is false, whose false is true. All day have I been nearer to thee than thou knewest of, and the adventure thou hast told us is not yet complete."
With that he drew nearer to the stranger.