BRUNHILDA.

  ’Twas in the night?

  FRIGGA.

  How dost thou know?

  BRUNHILDA.

  When on thee falls the moonlight—­On
  thy face, thou speakest oft aloud,
  Betraying much.

  FRIGGA.

And thou didst harken to me?  At midnight we were watching with our dead—­Our beauteous Queen.  The old man’s hair was white, And longer than a woman’s.  Like a cloak It hung about him, flowing softly down.

  BRUNHILDA.

  The spirit of the mountain!

  FRIGGA.

  Naught know I!—­
  No syllable he spoke.  The little maid
  Reached forth her hands and grasped the golden crown
  That glittered brightly o’er the dead Queen’s brow. 
  We marveled that it fitted her.

  BRUNHILDA.

  The child?

  FRIGGA.

  The little maid; and it was none too large,
  Nor later did it bind her.

  BRUNHILDA.

  ’Twas like mine!

  FRIGGA.

  Like thine it was!  And, yet more wonderful. 
  The child was like the maid that lay there dead
  Within the mother’s arms and disappeared
  As had it ne’er existed—­yes, so like
  That only by the breathing could we know
  The living from the dead.  It seemed to us
  That nature must have formed one body twice,
  With life for one child only.

  BRUNHILDA.

  Had the Queen
  A new-born baby in her arms?

  FRIGGA.

  Her life
  She gave to bear her child, and with her died
  The little maid.

  BRUNHILDA.

  Thou didst not tell me that. 
  FRIGGA.  I never thought to tell thee.  Sorrow broke
  The mother’s heart that she could never show
  Her baby to her lord.  For many years
  This priceless joy in vain he had desired,
  And, just a month before the child was born,
  A sudden death o’ertook him.

  BRUNHILDA.

  Tell me more!

  FRIGGA.

  We sought the aged man, but he was gone. 
  The glowing mountain that had been cleft through
  As one might split an apple, slowly now
  Was drawn together there before our eyes.

  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.