Two dramas, the huge encircling tragedy of Wotan in conflict with his wife Fricka, the goddess of laws and covenants, especially the covenant of marriage, and the subsidiary tragedy of Siegmund and Sieglinda, are combined in perfect proportions in the Valkyrie.  The story at first sounds a little complicated; but the reader, bearing in mind what has already been said of Wotan’s Master-idea, can have no difficulty whatever in following it.  The Master-idea, we know, is to raise up a hero who, acting freely, independent of and ever defying the gods, will wrest the Ring from Fafner.  Wotan, then, has descended from his Valhalla, and, taking an earthly wife, begotten two children, Siegmund and Sieglinda, who know themselves to be of the tribe of the Volsungs.  These he deserts.  Sieglinda is taken captive and made the loveless wife of Hunding; Siegmund, alone in the world, wanders hither and thither, meeting ill-luck everywhere—­ill-luck prepared by his father.  At last, in attempting to rescue a maiden from some raiders, he is forced to fly.  As he runs through the depths of an unknown forest a storm breaks upon him, and he takes shelter, utterly exhausted, in the house of Hunding.  At this point the curtain rises.

The scene is the inside of Hunding’s dwelling, built round a great ash-tree; on the right the fire burns on the hearth.  The steady roar of the storm outside is heard, broken by shocks as the wind buffets the trees and the house and by the plashing of the rain.  The room is empty; presently the door is roughly dashed open from outside and Siegmund staggers in.  “Whatever this house may be, I must rest here,” he says, and throws himself on the hearth. (We must bear in mind that the hearth was sacred:  if my enemy took refuge on mine I might starve him out, but so long as he stayed there I might not hurt him.) Sieglinda enters; the two do not recognise one another; he calls for water; she brings him mead.  Presently they fall to talking; and it is seen that the inevitable must happen.  Hunding enters abruptly; they sit down to supper; Siegmund discloses his identity, so far as he knows it—­all but his name; Hunding recognises the very man he has been chasing, and gives him shelter for the night, but warns him that in the morning he, without a weapon, must fight.  He calls for his night-draught, sends Sieglinda into the sleeping-room, and follows her.  She glances repeatedly from Siegmund to a spot on the ash-trunk; but he does not take her meaning.

There follows a strange and beautiful scene.  Siegmund lies down to rest; the fire glimmers fitfully, then blazes up, revealing at the point on the trunk at which Sieglinda had gazed a shining sword-hilt, the blade embedded in the trunk.  Still Siegmund does not understand, and the fire dies down; he is beginning to slumber when Sieglinda enters and calls him.  He starts up; she has put a sleeping-powder in Hunding’s cup, and they are safe; and thus begins the greatest love-duet, next to the Tristan,