GISELHER.

  But as it is they help thy cause enough! 
  That one can take good metal and alloy
  And beat them into trumpets smooth and round,
  I long have known.  But that one could shape men
  In such a way I knew not, but these two
  Show us the work of such a smith as thou. 
  They praised thee—­If thou hadst been there to hear,
  Thy cheeks would still flame scarlet!  Yet ’twas not
  With measured praise, as men will praise their foe,
  Thinking to lessen thus the burning shame
  Of their own downfall.  No, ’twas heartfelt praise. 
  But you should hear Kriemhilda tell the tale. 
  Unweariedly she asked them o’er and o’er.—­
  She’s coming now.

  SCENE III

  Enter UTE and KRIEMHILD.

  SIEGFRIED.

  I pray you!

  GISELHER.

  What’s thy wish?

  SIEGFRIED.

  I never longed to have my father by,
  That he might teach me how to bear my arms,
  But ah! today I need my mother so,
  That I might ask her how to use my tongue.

  GISELHER.

  Give me thy hand, since thou art shamefaced too. 
  They call me here “the child.”  Now let them see
  A “child” may lead a lion!

  [He leads SIEGFRIED to the women.]

  ’Tis the knight
  From Netherland!

  SIEGFRIED.

  Fair ladies, do not fear,
  Because I’ve come alone.

  UTE.

  Brave Siegfried, no! 
  We do not fear, for thou art not the man
  Who’s left alone when all but he are dead,
  To bear his tale, a messenger of woe. 
  Thou comest to announce a daughter dear,
  And Kriemhild hath a sister.

  SIEGFRIED.

  So it is,
  My Queen!

  GISELHER.

  So is it!  Nothing more?  And scarce
  Those few words could he utter!  Dost thou grudge
  The king his bride?  Or hast thou lamed thy tongue
  In battle?  That was never known before. 
  But no, for thou could’st use it fast enough
  To tell me of Brunhilda’s dark brown eyes
  And raven tresses.

  SIEGFRIED.

  Prithee, say not so!

  GISELHER.

  How hotly he denies it!  See him raise
  On high three fingers, swearing that he loves
  Blue eyes—­light hair!

  UTE.

  This is an arrant rogue! 
  He is nor boy nor man, sapling nor tree. 
  And long hath he outgrown his mother’s rod,
  Nor ever hath he felt his father’s whip. 
  Ungoverned is he as a yearling colt,
  That’s never known the bridle or the whip. 
  We must forgive or punish him!

  SIEGFRIED.

  ’Twere not
  So easy as you think!  To break a colt
  Is difficult, and many limp away
  Ashamed, and cannot mount him!

  UTE.

  Then once more
  He ’scapes his punishment!