FRIGGA.
Naught know I!—
No syllable he spoke. The little maid
Reached forth her hands and grasped the golden crown
That glittered brightly o'er the dead Queen's brow.
We marveled that it fitted her.
BRUNHILDA.
The child?
FRIGGA.
The little maid; and it was none too large,
Nor later did it bind her.
BRUNHILDA.
'Twas like mine!
FRIGGA.
Like thine it was! And, yet more wonderful.
The child was like the maid that lay there dead
Within the mother's arms and disappeared
As had it ne'er existed—yes, so like
That only by the breathing could we know
The living from the dead. It seemed to us
That nature must have formed one body twice,
With life for one child only.