Suddenly through the veil, dim, indistinct, showed the couch of Brünnhilde, shrouded in the billows and puffs of the smoke; the goddess herself stretched lifeless, asleep; and the form of Siegfried, breaking through the ring of the fire, leaping forward, the sword in his hand. He sprang to the couch, gazing down at the sleeping Walküre, straight and still, covered with the shimmering steel of the buckler, the spear by her side and the helmet on her head, motionless, glittering in the flare of the flames. "Brünnhilde—Brünnhilde!"
Siegfried lifted his voice and sang to her—he had taken the shield from her now and was bending lower, clasping his hands as if in ecstasy.
The House was like a black pit, silent, without movement or rustle, hanging on the notes, watching the glittering, prostrate form and Siegfried stooping.… Presently she stirred. The smoke had grown lighter, more vapoury, translucent. Her form stirred slowly, dreamily, raising itself from the couch. The magic was broken; the goddess was aroused at last.
Brünnhilde opened her eyes—and half kneeling, half reclining, she stared about her, dazed, half conscious. Siegfried hung over her. The flames, the smoke were dying away. She seemed in a trance; and then, as she gazed at the sky and the sunlight, the rocks and the trees, her lips parted suddenly; she raised her arms, half in bewilderment half in ecstasy, stretching them upwards, and began to sing.
It was like a lark, disturbed by the reapers, rising from its nest in the meadows. The notes came softly, dreamily from her throat; and then as she rose slowly to her feet, clasping the spear, it was as if a floodgate had been opened and the sounds poured out, full, glorious, irresistible, ringing through the darkness and the silence of the House. Drawn to her height she stood, the helmet tipped back on her red-blonde hair, the white robes trailing about her, the spear uplifted. As she sang her throat swelled, her voice came like a torrent: above the wood-winds and strings, the brass and the basses, the single voice soared higher and higher, deeper and richer, full of passion and pure.
"Heil dir, Sonne!
Heil dir, Licht!
Heil dir, leuchtender Tag!"
The "Heil" was like a clarion note ringing through space; like the sound of an echo through mountain passes. The audience listened and gazed as under a spell; the orchestra played as it had never played before; the baton waved. Siegfried sang to her and she responded; their voices rising and mingling together, every note a glory.
On the stage, still dim with the smoke and the flames, the light grew stronger, illuminating the helmet of Brünnhilde, the tip of her spear, falling full on her face and her eyes. She drew nearer the foot-lights, still singing, her sight half blinded, gazing unconsciously into the pit of the House and the darkness. She was clasping her spear, and her voice rose high above the violins.
Her eyes sought the baton, the face of her Master; and then as she stood, she trembled suddenly. Her voice died away in her throat; her steps faltered.
The Conductor leaned over the desk, the baton moving mechanically as if the fingers were stiffened. The orchestra played on. A shudder ran over the House.