“I fly from our father! In terrible wrath he hunts me down!”
“Thou fliest from our father?” cried all the sisters, horror-struck. “What hast thou done that thou shouldst fly from him?”
Brunhilda poured out her tale in eager haste. From one to another she looked for pity or sympathy but in vain. Sternly the Valkyries eyed her as she knelt and implored them to shelter her and the unfortunate Sieglinda from the wrath of Wotan.
“Woe to thee, most unworthy sister! How durst thou disobey the sacred command of Wotan our father? Naught but disaster can follow!”
And now, from the north, raging storm-clouds came sweeping toward them. One of the Valkyries mounted to the topmost peak, and, looking across the sky, called out:
“He comes! Wotan the wrathful father! flying furiously in the storm-clouds on his snorting steed!”
“Who will lend me a horse? Grani is spent—see, he cannot even stand! Rossvisa, my sister, have pity, lend me thy racer!” Brunhilda implored, turning to a stately Valkyrie whose magnificent steed was at her side.
“My racer never yet fled our father in fear, and never shall!” replied Rossvisa coldly. To each one Brunhilda went, beseeching a horse.
“We stand by our father!” the Valkyries all answered her. Brunhilda was in despair.
Then Sieglinda, who had watched the scene in gloomy silence, came forward and spoke. “Sorrow not for me, noble maiden. Oh, why didst thou not leave me to die with Siegmund? If thou hast indeed pity on me, stretch forth thy sword and pierce me now to the heart.”