At this moment old Hildebrand, wrathful over the breach of the condition imposed upon her by Dietrich when he delivered Gunther and Hagen to her, cuts her down. Kriemhilde, with a frightful scream, sinks to the ground, beside the body of her deadly enemy.
"With anguish thus had ended the monarch's revelry,
As love will to sorrow too oft become a prey."
Kriemhilde, the German woman par excellence, with her heart filled with all the virtues of love and faith, outraged in her holiest feelings, and thus "turning the milk of human kindness to fermenting dragon's poison," presents to us all the potentialities of womanhood, and withal the entire range of the psychology of German womanhood.
When we emerge from the orgy of hate and bloodshed with which the second part of the Nibelungenlied is filled, when we have fathomed the depths of the passion of which a high-minded, loving type of royal womanhood such as Kriemhilde is capable, we are glad to resort to the beneficent contrast of womanly gentleness and loveliness which we find in Gudrun, the second great mediaeval German epic, whose roots and branches are deeply set in the Migration period. We discover here a portrait of the culture of the time, its warfare, its seafaring, its discoveries, its geographical horizon, and, especially, its love and truth and faith. If we were stirred in the former epic by the gloomy and lurid background that overshadowed even its sunniest scenes; if the sinking of the noblest, purest, most affectionate Kriemhilde into demoniacal passion did not permit us to arrive at a serene contemplation of that gigantic work of art, we now celebrate the triumph of the loyalty and devotion and perseverance of a genuine womanly heart over long and bitter sorrow and humiliations. While Kriemhilde's fierce hatred immolates both herself and a great dynasty on the altar of revenge, in Gudrun we celebrate the victory of self-abnegation, patience, and peace, and the reconciliation of two mighty dynasties.
The theatre of action of this, the second greatest national epic, is the entire range of the North Sea, with its measureless limits extending into mythical infinity, with its long coast line and sea-girt isles, with its Viking ships storm-tossed on the watery roads of all the races. The North Sea did not limit the sturdiness of the Teutonic seafarers of the Norse race, just as the Mediterranean did not restrain their energy and wandering instincts. As the Lombard cycle of sagas reaches out beyond the confines of the Teutonic world to Constantinople, to Syria, to Babylon, and to the mythical lands beyond the seas, so the cycle of the North leads us not only to the Netherlands, the land of the Frisians and Ditmarsch, but over to Seeland, Normandy, Ireland, even to the Orkneys, and perchance to Iceland.
And perhaps it may not be amiss, by way of contrast and to show the opposite poles of the Germanic world, to recount briefly an epic lay of the Lombard cycle which breathes quite a different atmosphere and exhibits different colors, geographically and morally speaking, from those of the North Sea. In the Lombard cycle there is a connection of the Teutonic cosmos with the fabulous Oriental world. King Ortnit of Lamparten (Lombardy) wins by a series of stratagems the resplendent daughter of the heathen king Nachaol, of Muntabur, in Syria, and makes her his wife. Descriptions of golden armor, magic rings, and rich treasures of the East betray everywhere the Oriental character of this Langobard legend.
More Germanic, though its sources lay entirely in the Byzantine Empire, is the saga of Hugdietrich with its moral of the all-pervading power of love. The names of the leading characters especially indicate the Teutonic setting of the saga. Hugdietrich is King of Constantinople, and, after the early death of his father, is reared by Duke Berchtung. At the age of twelve an Oriental age for marriage he consults with his guardian concerning the choice of a wife. The choice falls upon the fair maiden Hildeburg, daughter of King Walgund at Salnek (Saloniki); but this princess is confined in a lofty tower, for it has been decided that she is never to marry. Unlike Danae, the Greek beauty, who is reached in her solitary tower by the love of the Olympian Zeus in the form of a golden rain, Hildeburg receives Hugdietrich in a more satisfactory form. The young king to attain his end disguises himself in the garb of a maiden with flowing golden hair; he learns feminine arts, among them that of embroidery, and journeys to Salnek, accompanied by a numerous retinue. Here he represents himself as Hildegund, the exiled sister of the King of the Greeks, and is hospitably received by King Walgund. The false Hildegund quickly gains the favor of the royal couple of Salnek by her wonderful embroideries in gold and silver; and when her position at the court is assured, she requests the honor of becoming an attendant and playmate to Hildeburg. This granted, Hugdietrich is admitted to the tower of the captive princess. For twelve weeks, Hugdietrich plays his rôle and teaches his love the art of embroidery, but he is unable longer to restrain his passion, and he reveals himself to her. His love is reciprocated, and a blissful year is passed by the loving pair. At this juncture, Duke Berchtung arrives from Constantinople to conduct Hildegund home, since the king, her brother, wishes to receive her again into grace and brotherly affection. Hildeburg is left in painful longing and sadness. Soon afterward she gives birth to a son, whom she tries to conceal from the sight of men. One day, however, her mother surprises her by an unexpected visit; and the frightened nurse lets the babe, wrapped in silken cloths, down among the bushes of the ditch surrounding the castle. When, after the departure of the queen, the child is searched for, he is not to be found. A wolf has carried him away as food for his young. But King Walgund, who, as it happens, is out hunting, kills the wolves, and finds the child grievously weeping. The king takes him under his mantle and brings him to his queen, calling him Wolfdietrich, as he had found him among the wolves. Hildeburg, too, sees him, and recognizes him as her own child by his birthmark, a red cross between his shoulders. She confesses everything to her parents, and is forgiven. Hugdietrich is sent for. He comes, recognizes the boy as his own, kisses him in truly Germanic fashion, wraps his golden mantle around him as a token of recognition, and pronounces the words:
"'Wolfdietrich, O dearest child of mine,
Constenople be the inheritance thine.'"