Brunhilda’s woe was too great for any cry.
“I have spoken once—my words abide forever!” retorted Wotan. “Thy treacherous sister,” he continued, “no longer belongs to the glorious troop of Valkyries. Her godhood is forfeit! The doom she has earned is now to wed a mortal man.”
At this picture of her future, poor Brunhilda sank with a deep groan to the earth.
Wotan turned to the eight sisters, who looked on in deep distress. “If ye desire not a like doom, forbear to pity the outcast. Away now, begone, every one of ye! Haste, lest I hurl the same woe on your heads!” The earth quaked and trembled as Wotan passionately stamped his foot, and fiery gleams shot from his eyes.
With a last despairing look at Brunhilda and a wild cry of woe, the Valkyries sprang on their horses and fled in hot haste. They knew if their stern father spared not his favorite Brunhilda, still less would he spare them.
The storm had now ceased. Brunhilda lay prostrate on the ground. Wotan stood motionless in silent gloom. His rage seemed spent, like that of the storm. Then Brunhilda rose slowly from the ground, and spoke in deep sorrowful tones. “Was my deed verily so shameful that such shame should fall upon me? Was it so base an act to fulfil thy first command? Speak, O my father, and soften thy wrath toward me.”
“Thou didst wilfully disobey my sacred order. The first command I recalled,” replied Wotan bitterly.
“But not of thine own will. ’Twas Fricka who made thee false to thy nobler self; and because I held in my heart thy true wish, I dared to slight thy second order.”
The mention of Fricka brought an angry flash from the eyes of Wotan. “For that rebellious act the curse now falls on thee,” he answered.