Brunhilda could scarcely believe she heard aright. “Nay, but thou lovest Siegmund,” she cried in sore perplexity, “and Hunding dost thou hate! Ah,” she continued, as a new thought came to her, “this second decree is not given with thy heart! Rather will I abide by the first!”
Brunhilda spoke with good intent, but these were unlucky words. In many respects the mighty Wotan was not unlike a mortal man.
“How, froward child! Dost dare dispute my word?” he cried. “Thou who are naught but the blind tool used by my hand! Wake not my wrath, but heed well my command—Siegmund dies in the fight with Hunding. I have spoken—go!”
In sorrowful amaze the warrior-maiden took up her weapons and departed. She found the ill-starred lovers resting awhile in their wanderings through the trackless forest. Sieglinda’s strength was utterly spent, and she had fallen into a deep swoon.
“Siegmund the Volsung,” spoke Brunhilda in solemn tones, “I come to call thee hence!”
“Who art thou, so fair and stern?” he asked.
“Only those already doomed to death may look upon my face,” she answered. “I am she who bears the fallen warrior to Valhalla.”
“And will this my love come also to Valhalla?” asked Siegmund, gazing tenderly at the pale face of the sleeping Sieglinda.
“Nay,” replied Brunhilda, “such is not the will of Wotan; Sieglinda must remain upon the earth. But thou shalt be with heroes, and the daughters of Wotan shall wait upon thee.”
“If my love may not be there, I will have none of Valhalla’s delights! I follow thee not!” answered Siegmund fixedly.