SCENE II

  Music.  A great procession. WULF and TRUCHS among the warriors.

  RUMOLT (joining DANKWART).

  Will Hagen be content?

  DANKWART.

  I think he will. 
  This is a summons, as it were, to war! 
  Yet he is right, for this strange princess needs
  Quite other morning serenades than sings
  The lark that warbles in the linden tree.

  [They pass by.]

  SCENE III

  Enter SIEGFRIED with KRIEMHILD.

  KRIEMHILD (calling attention to her attire).

  Wilt thou not thank me?

  SIEGFRIED.

  Nay, what dost thou mean?

  KRIEMHILD.

  But look at me!

  SIEGFRIED. That thou art living, smiling,
  I give thee thanks, and that thine eyes are blue—­
  I love not black—­

  KRIEMHILD.

  Thou dost but praise the Lord
  In his handmaiden!  Did I make myself,
  Thou simple fellow?  Did I choose the eyes
  Thou dost admire?

  SIEGFRIED.

  Yet love, methinks, might dream
  E’en such strange fancies!  One fair morn in May
  When all things glistened as they glisten now,
  Two crystal dewdrops, clearer than the rest,
  Were hanging on the harebells bluest spray;
  And thou hast stolen them, and evermore
  All heaven’s in thine eyes.

  KRIEMHILD.

  Then rather give
  Thy thanks to me that as a child I fell
  So wisely.  My blue eyes I might have lost
  The day I only marked my temple here!

  SIEGFRIED.

  Oh, let me kiss the scar!

  KRIEMHILD.

  Thy healing art
  Would be but lost.  No balsam craves the wound
  That’s long since healed.  But tell me more!

  SIEGFRIED.

  I thank
  Thy mouth—­

  KRIEMHILD.

  With words?

  SIEGFRIED (about to embrace her).

  But may I thank thee so?

  KRIEMHILD (draws back).

  Dost think that I invite thee?

  SIEGFRIED.

  With words then
  For thy words!  No, for sweeter yet than words,
  Thy murmuring of tender secret things
  My ear finds precious, as my lips thy kiss. 
  I thank thee for thy secret gazing forth
  To see us throwing weights to win the prize. 
  Oh, had I dreamed of it!  And for thy scorn
  And mockery—­

  KRIEMHILD.

  A maiden’s pride to soothe
  For tarrying, thou thinkest?  Cruel friend! 
  I told thee in the dark!  But wilt thou see
  My blushes now when in the light of day
  Thou tellest me the tale?  My foolish blood
  Flushes and pales so fast, my mother says
  That I am like a rose-bush that sends forth
  Red buds and white upon a single stem—­
  Else hadst thou never found my secret out. 
  For I could feel the burning of my cheeks,
  When yestermorn my brother teased me so. 
  I saw no way but to confess to thee.