"Well, Mime, is my head which I pledged to thee, free?"
"Aye, go."
"If thou hadst welcomed me, I could have solved thy problems for thee, but I had to pledge my head to thee before I could rest here. So now, by the law of wager, this matter is now reversed. It is for thee to answer me three questions—or lose thy head. Tell me, then: What race does Wotan the War-god favour?"
"Ah, I can answer that: it is the Wälsungs—a race sprung from wolves. The Wälsungs' mightiest son is his care. His name is Siegfried."
"Now tell me the name of the sword with which this same Siegfried is bound to conquer the world, to kill the dragon Fafner, and to get the Rheingold and the ring?"
"The name of the sword is Nothung," the dwarf replied, not daring to keep silence.
"Now one more answer, as wise as those gone before, and thy head is free: Who shall fashion this same sword, Nothung, for Siegfried?"
At this question the Mime leaped up and flung his tools all about in rage.
"I know not who has the power to make the sword," he screamed.
"I will tell thee," the Wanderer answered, smiling contemptuously upon the Mime. "The sword shall be forged by one who has never known fear. Now thy head is forfeit, but I shall leave it on thy shoulders for that same man—he who knows no fear—to strike from thee." Still smiling at the terror-stricken Mime, the Wanderer passed out into the forest.