She was singing now; she had sprung to her feet with the spear in her hand, and the music poured from her throat. It was not the voice of Schultz; it was richer and fuller, and the tones were deep and strong, and pure and high; and it rang out and filled the empty stage like a clarion trumpet, silver-toned. She held her hands high above her head, waving the spear; coming nearer to him and nearer.
"O Siegfried, Herrliche Hort der Welt!
Leben der Erde, lachender Held!"
Her red-blonde hair shone in the light and the helmet glittered: "Siegfried! Siegfried!"
It was the Lehmann come back! Ah, no—it was more than the Lehmann! Ritter gazed and listened, and his heart gave a leap. It was Brünnhilde herself, the goddess come to life; and the stage was no longer there: it was night on the mountain-top; they were surrounded by fires crackling and leaping; the flash of flames curling, and light and smoke. The violins were playing.
Instinctively his fingers clutched the air as if grasping the baton. "Siegfried!"
The cry came big and passionate as from the throat of a Walküre, without limit or strain. The Kapellmeister staggered and covered his eyes.
"Gott!" he cried, "Am I dreaming? Where am I? Madame—stop! Are you the Schultz, or are you—? I thought you were mad, stark mad; but it is I—I! When I looked at you now, you were Brünnhilde alive—your voice is the voice of the goddess herself!"
He sank down on the couch and covered his face with his hands. The blood rushed to his ears and seethed there, and the music beat against his brain. Then the faintness passed, and he looked up.
Brünnhilde stood a little apart, still grasping the spear. The light fell on her helmet, and it shone; her lips were arched as if the tones were still in her throat, dying away. She was gazing at him and her breast was panting. The light fell full on her face.
"Ach—mein Gott!" he cried, "It is Kaya!"