One day Siegfried sat in his sun-lit hall in Nibelungen Land; and Kriemhild, lovely as a morning in June, sat beside him. And they talked of the early days when alone he fared through the mid-world, and alone did deeds of wondrous daring. And Siegfried bethought him then of the glittering Hoard of Andvari, and the cave and the mountain fortress, where the faithful dwarf Alberich still guarded the measureless treasure.
“How I should like to see that mountain fastness and that glittering hoard!” cried Kriemhild.
“You shall see,” answered the king.
And at once horses were saddled, and preparations were made for a morning’s jaunt into the mountains. And, ere an hour had passed, Siegfried and his queen, and a small number of knights and ladies, were riding through the passes. About noon they came to Alberich’s dwelling,—a frowning fortress of granite built in the mountain-side. The gate was opened by the sleepy giant who always sat within, and the party rode into the narrow court-yard. There they were met by Alberich, seeming smaller and grayer, and more pinched and wan, than ever before.
“Hail, noble master!” cried he, bowing low before Siegfried. “How can Alberich serve you to-day?”
“Lead us to the treasure-vaults,” answered the king. “My queen would fain feast her eyes upon the yellow, sparkling hoard.”
The dwarf obeyed. Through a narrow door they were ushered into a long, low cavern, so frowning and gloomy, that the queen started back in affright. But, re-assured by Siegfried’s smiling face, she went forward again. The entrance-way was lighted by little torches held in the hands of tiny elves, who bowed in humble politeness to the kingly party. But, when once beyond the entrance-hall, no torches were needed to show the way; for the huge pile of glittering gold and sparkling jewels, which lay heaped up to the cavern’s roof, lighted all the space around with a glory brighter than day.
“There is the dwarf’s treasure!” cried Siegfried. “Behold the Hoard of Andvari, the gathered wealth of the ages! Henceforth, fair Kriemhild, it is yours—all yours, save this serpent-ring.”
“And why not that too?” asked the queen; for she admired its glittering golden scales, and its staring ruby eyes.
“Alas!” answered he, “a curse rests upon it,—the curse which Andvari the ancient laid upon it when Loki tore it from his hand. A miser’s heart—selfish, cold, snaky—is bred in its owner’s being; and he thenceforth lives a very serpent’s life. Or, should he resist its influence, then death through the guile of pretended friends is sure to be his fate.”