What had happened? Brünnhilde had stopped singing. Siegfried was trying in vain to cover her part, singing his own. The Walküre stood motionless, transfixed, her eyes riveted on the Conductor. A slight murmur ran over the House: "Was she ill—struck with sudden paralysis? Or was it the stage-terror, pitiless, irresistible, benumbing her faculties?"
She stood there; and then she stretched out her hands, trembling; her voice came back.
"Velasco!" she cried.
"Kaya—Kaya!"
But the audience thought she had called out to Siegfried, and to encourage her they applauded, clapping and stamping with their feet and their hands. The sound revived her suddenly like the dash of cold water on the face of a sleep-walker.
"I must go on!" she said to herself, "Whatever happens I must go on!" Her eyes were still riveted.
The face of Velasco was white as death; great drops stood out on his brows, his fingers quivered over the baton. He moved it mechanically, gazing, and he swayed in his seat as if faint and oppressed. The other hand was stretched trembling toward her as if a vision had come in his path suddenly and he was blinded.
Her lips moved again, and his. For a moment it seemed as if he were about to leap to the stage over the foot-lights. Brünnhilde fell back.
"For God's sake!" whispered Siegfried, "What is it? Are you mad? Sing—sing! Let out your voice—take up your cue! Go on!"
Again she cried out; but this time her voice was in the tone, and the emotion of it, the longing, rent the air as with passion unveiled and bared. She shook the spear aloft in her hands, brandishing it, until the gleam from the flames lit it up like a spark, and fell on her helmet.