But all the time the immobility of her face never broke; it was fate itself. She thrust her torch into the pyre, greeted and unbridled her horse still with the same awful calm. It was only when the fire was roaring from floor to ceiling and she was about to mount Grane that her voice abruptly lost its solemnity and pealed out in the wildest ecstasy:
“Fühl’ meine Brust auch,
wie sie entbrennt;
helles Feuer
das Hertz mir erfasst,
ihn zu umschlingen,
umschlossen von ihm,
in mächtigster Minne
vermählt ihm zu sein!
Heiaho! Grane!