BRUNHILDA.
'Twas in the night?
FRIGGA.
How dost thou know?
BRUNHILDA.
When on thee falls the moonlight—On thy face, thou speakest oft aloud, Betraying much.
FRIGGA.
And thou didst harken to me?
At midnight we were watching with our dead—Our
beauteous Queen. The old man's hair was white,
And longer than a woman's. Like a cloak
It hung about him, flowing softly down.
BRUNHILDA.
The spirit of the mountain!