"I am one who brings wisdom, and whom none who have good hearts turn away. Only the evil turn from me. The good offer me shelter." The Mime, seeing only his own cunning and wickedness reflected in the Wanderer, tried to think how he should rid himself of one he believed had come to harm him. He thought the Wanderer must be a spy, but in reality, he was the God Wotan, who had seated himself upon the hearth, and was watching the Mime.
"Listen!" he said, beholding the Mime's fear; "ask of me what thou wilt and I shall lighten thy burden, be it what it may." He looked long and curiously at the Mime and could read his heart.
"Wilt answer me three questions?" the Mime demanded.
"Aye—and stake my head upon the truth of the answers."
"Then tell me what race it is that dwells in the depths of the earth."
"It is the Nibelung race, and Nibelheim is their land. There, all are black elves, and once upon a time, Alberich was their lord. He tamed them with the spell of a magic ring formed of the Rheingold. Ask on."
"What is the race which dwells upon the surface of the earth?" The Mime asked, less timidly.
"It is the race of Giants. Riesenheim is their land and Fasolt and Fafner were their rulers, but, possessing themselves of the Nibelung's gold, they fought, and one killed the other; till now, Fafner alone, in the form of a dragon, guards the hoard and ring. Speak on."
"Thou hast told me much," the Mime said, wondering. "But now canst thou tell me who are they who dwell upon cloud-hidden heights?"
"They are the Eternals, and Walhall is their home. Wotan commands that world. He shaped his spear from the branches of an ash tree, and with that spear he rules the Gods. Whoever wields that spear rules all the giants and the Nibelungs." As if by accident, Wotan—the Wanderer—struck the spear he carried upon the ground and a low roll of thunder responded. The Mime was terror-stricken.