By Constance Maud
For many a day Siegfried journeyed, keeping the bird always in sight. At night he slept under a tree, and the bird rested in a branch above, but with the first whisper of dawn Siegfried would start up, impatient to be off again.
Over mountain and valley, across river and lake, Siegfried followed as though his feet were shod with invisible wings, never flagging, never weary. He came at length one evening to a narrow pass in the mountains. The way seemed to lead upwards, but daylight was fading, and Siegfried could see nothing clearly. All at once the bird circled rapidly over his head, sang a few sweet half-plaintive notes, and then, soaring upwards, vanished out of sight.
In the same moment a deep voice spoke close at hand: “Halt! What seekest thou here?”
Siegfried went forward, and standing in the narrow way he saw a tall dark form. “I seek for the fire-girt mountain where the beautiful maiden sleeps,” answered Siegfried fearlessly. “Canst thou tell me the way?”
“Who told thee of such a maiden?” demanded the stranger sternly.
“A singing bird gave me the good news,” said Siegfried. “By tasting the blood of a dragon I learned the language of the birds, and I know my bird spake true.” He was getting impatient at so many questions and anxious to go on his way.
“So! thou hast slain old Fafnir. And with what weapon didst strike the death-blow, bold youth?” The stranger was in no hurry, evidently.
“With my father’s splintered sword, which I welded together again,” said Siegfried, with pride.