BRUNHILDA.
The old man came no more?
FRIGGA.
Now hark to me!
Next morning to the grave we bore our Queen;
But when the priest was ready to baptize
The little maid, his arm fell helpless down,
Nor could he touch her forehead with the dew
Of holy water, and his good right arm
He never lifted more.
BRUNHILDA.
What, never more!
FRIGGA.
The man was old, and so we marveled not.
We called another priest. The holy dew
He sprinkled on the child. The blessed words
Of benediction halted on his tongue,
Nor hath his speech returned.
BRUNHILDA.
And now the third?