On the Third Day, Bruennhilde and Siegfried had entered the cave; then when the sun rose and night was dispelled, they came out, Siegfried dressed in Bruennhilde's armour and Bruennhilde leading her good horse, Grane.

"Now, I must be gone and do valorous deeds, dear Bruennhilde," Siegfried said to her. Taking the Nibelung ring from his finger, he put it upon hers. "Keep thou this ring and thou art all powerful and it shall keep our faith, truly."

In return Bruennhilde gave him her horse, Grane.

"Once he mounted above the clouds while now he can only pace the earth; but that he will do bravely for thee, my Siegfried," she assured him. The parting was full of promises and love for each other. Siegfried and Grane disappeared below the cliff, while Bruennhilde, standing upon a little mountain height, looked down at them and bade Siegfried a loving farewell.

ACT I

While Siegfried was on his way to search for the glory suited to such a hero, a banquet was being held in the hall of the Gibichungs, a race of mortals living on the banks of the river Rhein.

Gunther and his sister Gutrune were the rulers, and they sat upon a rude throne, side by side, while the banquet table was spread before them.

At one side sat Hagen, the half brother of Gunther, half a Nibelung—in short, the son of Alberich. Through the great door of the hall could be seen a green field stretching away to the bank of the Rhein.

"Tell me, Hagen," Gunther asked of his half brother, "is there anything I have left undone that could enhance the fortunes of my race?"

"That there is," Hagen cried. "Dost thou not know of the Nibelungs' ring?"

"I have heard there is a treasure stolen from the Rhein-daughters; and that of it a ring was made, which has magic power."

"That is true; but the ring belongs to a wonderful youth, who by its power hath won a beautiful maiden called Bruennhilde. She lay in an enchanted sleep, in a forest-fastness, guarded by fire. This youth, Siegfried, alone, by means of this ring and his sword, has dared that flame; and now he has power over all the world, over thee and the Nibelungs, and even over the Gods."

Upon hearing this, Gunther became moody and frowning.

"Why hast thou stirred up envy in my breast. Why should this youth have the most beautiful maiden for a wife, and also a golden treasure that gives him power over us all?"

"Why not have these things for thyself?" Hagen asked, eyeing him keenly.

"How could I manage that?"

"Dost thou remember a magic potion I brought here to the hall of the Gibichungs? If Siegfried should chance to drink that when our sister Gutrune were in his sight, he would forget Bruennhilde and love none but Gutrune. Would not the ring and the treasure of the Rhein thus come into the hands of the Gibichungs?" Gutrune looked earnestly at Hagen.

"From what thou sayest of this brave youth, I long to have him for my husband; but he is not here! How are we to lure him hither?"

"He is an adventurous youth and hath heard of the fame of the Gibichungs. He will not rest until he has met with all the adventure the Gibichungs can afford him. Even now, he may be near this place." As Hagen spoke, the sound of Siegfried's horn was heard afar off.

"Ah, dost hear the challenge?" cried Hagen, running to the broad entrance from which could be seen the river Rhein. "There comes a horse and a man, standing in a boat which nears the shore. It must be he, because he is beautiful as none other is beautiful, and he wears the air of a brave man." Putting his hands to his mouth in the fashion of a trumpet he called loudly:

"Hoi-ho! Whom seekest thou, hero?"

"The stalwart son of the Gibichung."

"A welcome waits thee," Hagen answered. Siegfried could now be seen, disembarking with his horse, Grane. Hagen went to help him and made the boat's chain fast. Gunther followed his brother to the bank, while Gutrune stood in the great entrance to welcome the stranger.

Scene II

"Which is the son of the Gibich?" Siegfried asked, standing with his arm thrown across his horse.

"I am he, Siegfried," Gunther answered.

"Thy fame as a fighter has spread to the farthest corners of the earth and I am come to seek thee. Fight me, or be my friend, whichever thou wilt," he said, tranquilly. Gunther held out his hand in welcome:

"Come thou in friendship, Siegfried," he begged; and Siegfried gave Grane's bridle into Hagen's hand.

"Care well for the horse, Hagen; for it is of the mightiest strain ever known, and dear to me as my eyes; but how do you know my name?" he asked curiously of Gunther.

"Thou hast the appearance of that bold knight of whom all have heard. There can be no braver in the world, and if thou art not he I know not who thou art," Gunther answered, and, unseen by Siegfried, he motioned his sister to leave the hall before they entered it.

"These lands and people are mine," he continued, leading the way. "This great hall is my heritage, and my kinsmen are legion. I give all to you; share all with me. Let us dwell together in peace." At this saying a beautiful light came into Siegfried's face.

"I have neither kinsmen nor lands," he answered, much moved; "but I have this good sword, Nothung, which I forged myself and it, with my life, shall be thine." Thus they made a compact of brotherhood.

"Dost thou not own the treasure of the Nibelungen, then?" Hagen asked.

"True, but when I won it I let all but the ring and the Tarnhelm lie. I cared naught for the gold." He held up the Tarnhelm for them to see.

"Aye, 'tis the Tarnhelm!" Hagen cried. "Thou hast only to set it on thy head to be transformed into what thou wilt. Put it on thy head and wish it so, and thou wilt be transported in a trice to other lands. But there is also the ring——"

"Aye," Siegfried said tenderly; "but that is held by a woman," Hagen and Gunther looked at each other, meaningly, for they knew he spoke of Bruennhilde.

"Brother, call Gutrune to bring Siegfried a refreshing drink," Hagen said, and Gunther opening the door called to his sister who came out and offered the magic drink to the knight.

No sooner had he drunk, than he raised his eyes to thank Gutrune and beholding her, loved her.

"I drink to thee, dear Bruennhilde," he had been about to say, but looking, he loved another.

"What is thy sister's name?" he asked of Gunther in a low voice, scarcely daring to speak for fear his love would depart.

"Gutrune."

"I must have her for my wife. Hast thou not a wife, Gunther—why hast thou none?" he said, not waiting for one question to be answered before asking another.

"Alas, I have no wife because I have set my heart on one I may not have. I long for Bruennhilde, the Valkyrie maid who lies surrounded by fire—and I may not cross the flame."

"What! Is that thy only reason for being lonely? Then thou shalt have thy Bruennhilde. If Gutrune may be mine, I will win thy Bruennhilde for thee. Wearing the Tarnhelm I shall change my shape to thine, and as thy brother go through fire for thee and bring forth the maid."

"Ah," the Gibichung cried, joyfully; "our oath of brotherhood upon that! Gutrune shall be thine, thou ours, Bruennhilde mine."

Thus it was agreed. Hagen filled a drinking horn, while the two men cut their arms and let their blood mingle in the cup. Having drunk, they swore fidelity in the drink, and Hagen cut the horn in two with a single blow, while Siegfried and Gunther joined hands.

Putting on his armour again, Siegfried declared they should at once go forth and win Bruennhilde for Gunther.

"Wilt thou not rest, first?"

So eager was the enchanted Siegfried to win for another his own bride that he would take no rest till it was done; so Hagen was left to guard the hall till their return. Soon Gunther and the knight were pushing off from the river bank, and floating down the middle of the stream.

Hagen, the half Gibichung, half Nibelung, thought of nothing but winning the Rheingold for the Nibelungs. He had sent Gunther after another's bride, by means of an evil enchantment, and when she was brought to the hall, she would certainly be wearing the ring. Thus the prize of the Nibelungen would once more be within the grasp of an evil race, and that which might be a power for good if rightly used, would become a power for evil and be badly abused.

Scene III

While Siegfried and Gunther were on their way to fetch Bruennhilde, she sat lonely upon her rock, looking at the ring given her by Siegfried. As long as she looked upon it, she felt Siegfried to be near; nevertheless she was lonely. Very soon she heard the thunder.

"It is Donner! It is like a greeting to me from the Eternals," she thought, smiling half sadly. Once again she heard it and saw the flash of lightning. In the clouds, she saw Waltraute, her sister, coming on her winged horse, and Bruennhilde started up joyfully.

"Wotan has forgiven me," she cried, running to meet Waltraute, who arrived in great excitement.

"Bruennhilde, I have braved the war-father's wrath to beg thee to save the Eternals," she cried. "Since the day of thine enchantment Wotan has sent us no more to the battle-field for heroes. He has roamed over all the earth, till he is known as the Wanderer. One day he returned to Walhall with his spear broken, and he ordered the ash tree to be hewn in pieces and its splinters piled about Walhall. Then he summoned all our heroes about him, mounted the throne with his broken spear in his hand, and while we Valkyries crouched at his feet, he closed his eyes and seemed to wait for calamity to overwhelm us.

"At last in despair I threw myself upon his breast and demanded to know our fate. He told me that the Nibelungs' ring was now yours, and that should you restore it to the Rhein-daughters, the Eternals would once more be given back their life and youth, and all would be well with the world. Now I have fled to thee to beg thee to save us by restoring the ring."

At that, Bruennhilde looked at her sister sorrowfully. "The ring given me by Siegfried? Nay! I will never give up my ring. So hasten back to Walhall, sister. I cannot aid thee." Sadly embracing the despairing Valkyrie, Bruennhilde parted from her.

Mounting her winged horse, Waltraute rose among the clouds whose bright effulgence was watched sadly by Bruennhilde, till with the last sight of the Valkyrie, the evening closed in and the fire which guarded the beautiful maid began to be reflected again from below. Soon the flames seemed to leap with anger, and Bruennhilde watched the strange sight with anxiety. Suddenly she heard a call. It was Siegfried's. She ran to the edge of the cliff to look below, and almost instantly he appeared, rushing to her through the flames which immediately grew dull. The knight wore the Tarnhelm, but it hid only the half of his face, and his eyes were visible. His form was strange to Bruennhilde because he had changed into the image of Gunther, and when she looked at the unknown figure she shrieked. Then she whispered:

"Who cometh?" At first Siegfried stood motionless, leaning upon his spear. Then he said in a strange voice:

"I am a Gibichung come to wed thee." This made Bruennhilde frantic with terror, and to protect herself she stretched out the hand which wore the ring.

"Go back," she cried, but Siegfried in the guise of Gunther tore the ring from her, and after that she had no more strength to fly from him, so seizing her he carried her away to the hall of the Gibichungs.

ACT II

Back at the home of the Gibichungs sat Hagen, awaiting the return of Gunther and Siegfried. Altars to Fricka, Donner, and Wotan were raised upon the Rhein, ready for sacrifices to be offered, when Gunther should return with Bruennhilde for his bride.

Toward evening, Hagen sat just inside the entrance hall asleep and leaning upon his spear, his shield beside him. When the bright moon rose above the river, Alberich could be seen crouching at Hagen's knees, whispering evil dreams to him.

"Thou art my son," he said, "and must win back the Rheingold for the Nibelungen"; and in his dreams, Hagen promised to follow the counsel. Then the moon's light was hidden, and in the darkness Alberich disappeared. When he had gone, the dawn broke. Hagen woke and looked out upon the peacefully flowing Rhein.

Scene II

As the Rhein grew redder and redder in the morning light, Hagen heard Siegfried's call and, all at once, the knight's head rose above the river's bank. He still wore the Tarnhelm upon his head, but appeared in his own shape.

"Waken and greet me, Hagen!" he cried gaily.

"Where are Bruennhilde and Gunther?" Hagen called, going to meet Siegfried.

"They follow, more slowly, in the boat. When I called to thee just now, I was miles away—at Bruennhilde's rock; but with the Tarnhelm upon my head, I arrived before thou couldst answer. Where is the beautiful Gutrune?"

"She will come at once to hear thy tale and to greet thee." Hagen called to her, and she appeared to learn of Bruennhilde's coming with her brother. She looked shyly at Siegfried.

"Let us call all to the wedding and greet Bruennhilde gaily, that she may be glad to dwell with us, and not sigh for her mountain rock," she cried; and Siegfried, taking her hand, went with her to prepare the feast.

Meanwhile, Hagen, watching from a high rock, blew upon his cow-horn as he saw a boat slowly coming up the river bearing Gunther and Bruennhilde.

Scene III

"Ho! Vassals! Come! Hither come ye with your arms!" he shouted, blowing again a sharp blast upon the horn. In response the warriors of Gunther began to pour from the hall, and to run in great excitement to the river-bank.

"What do we gather for? Whom shall we fight? Is our Lord, Gunther, in danger?"

"He comes hither with a Valkyrie maid, and ye are to make sacrifices to the Gods. Kill ye a boar for Froh, a goat for Donner, and for Fricka kill a sheep. After ye have done those things, take the drinking horns and drink yourselves drunk in honour of the Gods."

The vassals went, some of them to the river's bank to receive Gunther and Bruennhilde, some to the hall to await their coming, and to welcome them upon its threshold.

"If any one has done your Lord's bride wrong, see that ye avenge her," Hagen forewarned. He was already beginning to stir up strife for Siegfried in accordance with Alberich's advice.

Scene IV

Clashing their shields and arms together, the vassals formed a line through which Bruennhilde and Gunther should pass, and when the boat reached the landing place all cried "Hail!" But Hagen stood silently watching, planning Siegfried's ruin.

When the pair stepped ashore, Bruennhilde walked with eyes cast down, full of despair and sorrow, while Gunther led her by the hand.

They reached the hall, where Siegfried and Gutrune stood to welcome them, and the men hailed each other as brother. Gunther rejoiced that Siegfried had won Gutrune for his wife, but Bruennhilde raised her eyes to the knight, and beholding her own husband, the hero knight, she gave a great cry:

"Siegfried here?" She became distracted with horror. But Siegfried did not know her, and all her entreaties were in vain, since he was still enchanted by the potion.

Suddenly the Valkyrie maid saw the Nibelungen ring upon Siegfried's finger, and she pointed to it, trembling. Gunther, astounded by her appearance, touched her.

"Regard thy husband, Bruennhilde," he commanded; but instead of heeding him, she pointed to the knight.

"He is my husband," she cried, and Hagen at once demanded that all should give heed to what she might say. He foresaw the downfall of Siegfried, in her words.

"The one who won me, wore that ring," she said, pointing to it with shaking hand. "He was the image of Gunther, then, and he took the ring from me." Gunther looked at Siegfried and frowned while all stared at the men and at Bruennhilde in amazement.

"It was he who wrenched the ring from me," she declared, pointing to Gunther, "yet it is this knight who wears it." Gunther denied having given or taken from her the ring, and Siegfried declared she did not speak the truth. Gunther feared to have it known that he had not dared the flame himself, for his bride, and yet he feared Siegfried had betrayed his honour. There was confusion among the spectators who said among themselves:

"Whose wife can Bruennhilde be?" But Siegfried, having quite forgotten the woman he so dearly loved, declared that he had got the ring he wore from no woman, but had taken it from a dragon, whom he attacked in his lair, and killed. This was true, of course, but it was also true that he had given the ring to Bruennhilde and under a wicked enchantment had taken it away.

Hagen spoke next, seeing a chance to gain the ring for the Nibelungs:

"Bruennhilde, thou sayest it was Gunther who wooed thee, and that it was he who took the ring from thee? Since that is true, Siegfried has won the ring by some false deed. It must have been Siegfried who came to thee in the guise of Gunther."

At this all the vassals murmured, and Gunther began to feel resentment, notwithstanding the part he had played in the deception. Bruennhilde wildly accused them both, and everybody cried out against Siegfried, Gutrune, too, accusing him. All the women called upon the knight to defend himself if he could, but he called for the spear's point on which to take an oath. When Hagen presented the spear to him, the knight laid his two fingers upon it and swore that he had been a faithful friend to Gunther, and that Bruennhilde's words were false. Bruennhilde, thus wronged, struck his hand from the spear and placing her own upon it, swore that Siegfried should die by that same spear's point.

By this time the quarrel had waxed so hot that the vassals and women called upon Donner to send his thunder, to silence it.

In the midst of the threats and confusion, Siegfried went close to Gunther and said aside:

"Brother, I am sorrier than thou art for all this, but it must have been the fault of the Tarnhelm which must have hidden only half of me. Thus, Bruennhilde cannot know whose wife she really is. But thou knowest well, that I won her for thee, and have no love for any but Gutrune. Come, let's be gay, and leave this poor girl to rest, so that she may recover herself. Like enough it is the strangeness of this place, after her wild, free life in her mountains, that gives her these uncanny thoughts."

Gunther, convinced by Siegfried's words, joined him in urging all to make gay upon this day of double marriage, and finally they followed Siegfried out into the forest, shouting and laughing, to feast and make sacrifices.

Scene V

Bruennhilde, Gunther, and Hagen remained in the hall after Siegfried had been followed out by the company, and the Valkyrie stood, gloomily bewailing her fate; till Hagen, watching fate work Siegfried's ruin, went at last to the unhappy wife.

"Give me thy trust, Bruennhilde," he said; "I will avenge thy wrongs."

"How wilt thou avenge me? One glance of Siegfried's eye would kill thee, if he so willed it." she answered, looking at Hagen darkly. "No weapon can pierce him in battle: I enchanted him against all danger—except some one thrust at him from behind. In the back I did not guard him. I would not protect him in cowardice, but Siegfried will never turn his back upon the enemy. Thou canst not kill him in battle."

Gunther then began to bemoan his disgrace; but Bruennhilde turned upon him.

"Oh, thou most cowardly of men—betrayed and betrayer! If I dealt justice, the whole world's destruction could not pay for the wrong done me."

"Naught but Siegfried's death can wipe out the wrong," Hagen cried, watching Bruennhilde as he spoke. "Since he cannot be killed in battle, listen to my plan! To-morrow we hunt in honour of the weddings of Gutrune and the knight, Gunther and thee. While in the chase, and Siegfried all unsuspecting, I shall thrust at him from behind."

"So let it be," Bruennhilde cried, and Gunther, too cowardly to know the right, consented. With the morrow's tragedy arranged Hagen saw the way at last to possess himself of the Nibelungen ring.

As they decided upon the deed, the bridal procession came from the inner hall. All the vassals and women bore spears and flowers. Gutrune and Siegfried were carried aloft, upon shields, and as Bruennhilde and Gunther met them, they too, were hoisted high and the procession moved onward, toward the altars on the river's bank, where they were to offer sacrifices unto the Gods.

ACT III

[Music]

Three days had passed since the Rhein-daughters had lost their golden treasure, and on the fourth they were swimming near the surface of the river, popping their heads up and calling to each other, when they heard the sound of the Gibichung hunters. Fearing to be caught by mortals, they dived to the bottom of the Rhein. No sooner had they disappeared than Siegfried came into the wood, armed for the hunt. He had lost his way, having followed his game, far from the others, and as he began to complain that he had that day got no game, the Rhein-daughters rose again to the surface and mocked him.

"If we grant thee some game to-day, wilt thou give us that ring upon thy finger?" they called to him.

"What! In return for a paltry bearskin give to you a ring which I gained in battling with the Dragon?" he laughed, "nay."

"Ah, maybe thou hast a scold for a wife, who would make thee feel her blows if thou gavest away the ring." This tormenting reply annoyed Siegfried and finally he took off the ring and held it up to them, offering it if they would cease to deride him. Then they regarded him gravely.

"Keep that ring," they said, "till thou hast tasted the ill-fate that goes with it; after that thou wilt gladly give it to us. Now thou art parting with it, reluctantly." So Siegfried replaced the ring on his finger.

"Tell me the ring's secret, wilt thou?" he asked, and the maidens told him that it was accursed, and that very day, even while he thought himself so safe and fortunate, his death was determined.

Upon hearing this, Siegfried became troubled and told them to hold their peace. So they swam away, while he stood watching them, reflecting gravely, till he heard Hagen's horn sound through the forest.

Scene II

Hearing Hagen's horn, Siegfried wound his own in reply, and soon Hagen, followed by Gunther and his vassals, entered the glade and flung their game in a great heap.

"Ah, this is where thou hast hidden thyself?" Hagen cried, gaily. "Come, let us all rest a while," and he threw himself down upon the ground. "The chase has wearied us, so let us have the wine-skins and drink heartily."

"I shall have to share your booty, if I am to eat," Siegfried laughed, "for I have had no luck to-day. I might have found game, but I followed the water-birds and heard from them a tale of disaster. It seems that I am to meet my death to-day." Hagen and Gunther started and looked meaningly at each other. Siegfried, all unsuspecting, threw himself down between Hagen and Gunther to drink his wine, and presently, seeing Gunther downcast, he sat up and began to while the time by telling tales of his youth—how he had lived with the Mime; how he had forged his good sword Nothung. After he had told about Fafner the Dragon, Hagen interrupted him and bade him drink again. Then he gave Siegfried a horn of wine, into which he had unnoticed poured another potion, which was to disenchant the knight. As in a dream, Siegfried's memory returned. He told of slaying the Dragon, and then of the little bird who directed him to a beautiful maiden who slept upon a rock, surrounded by fire.

"It was Bruennhilde," he cried, joyfully; "I waked her and made her mine." At this saying, all the company roused themselves and regarded each other with troubled looks. Siegfried had confirmed the story that Bruennhilde had told.

At that moment two ravens, which Wotan had sent out from Walhall to learn the time when the doom of the Eternals had come, flew from a thicket near by, and Siegfried raised himself up to watch them. He turned his back to Hagen, and instantly the warrior plunged his sword into the knight's back and Siegfried fell dead.

There was a frightful outcry then from all, and Gunther, remembering the truth, knowing that Siegfried had been betrayed by magic, and had believed himself to be serving Gunther without harm, felt remorse and knelt beside the body. Hagen turned away and went into the hills, while the vassals gathered about, prepared to take the body to the hall of the Gibichungs. As the funeral procession moved off, to the measure of wonderful music, the moon rose, its light flooded all the valley, and touched the corpse.

Back at the hall, Gutrune had risen from sleep, believing she heard some strange, threatening sound. First she went to Bruennhilde's door, but she appeared to be asleep. Next she went to the entrance of the great hall and listened, but she heard nothing; then after a little she saw Hagen, wearing a fearful look, coming from the river's bank. Something in her heart told her that a dreadful thing had happened.

"What misfortune has come to Siegfried?" she cried.

"They come—bearing his body," Hagen answered, looking upon the ground.

Scene III

After Hagen, came the men bearing the body, and when Gutrune saw it, she shrieked and fell upon it.

"Who hath done this wicked thing?" she shrieked, and Hagen looked at Gunther.

"Nay," said Gunther, shaking his head angrily, "do not look at me. It was not I who did this. It was that accursed man," and he pointed to Hagen. Already the fight for the ring, in the hall of the Gibichungs was beginning to divide brothers. "May grief and ill-fate be thine, forever!"

"Well," said Hagen, "I admit the deed, and now I claim my heritage—the ring of the Nibelungen!" He tried to take the ring from the dead man's finger.

"Never shalt thou have it," Gutrune cried, flinging herself upon him.

"Away! What I have won, thou shalt ne'er make thine!" Gunther shouted. "Dost think to grasp Gutrune's dower?" The two men fell a-fighting; and Hagen, piercing Gunther's breast, sprang aside, while Gunther fell dead. Instantly Hagen leaped toward Siegfried's body to snatch the ring; but slowly, slowly the dead hand was raised threateningly, and Gutrune shrieked out.

Bruennhilde, who now appeared, advanced toward the corpse, solemnly.

"Do ye who have betrayed me, now think to make that which is mine your own?" she asked, looking at the company contemptuously, and speaking in a grave voice. "Thou wert no wife of his," she said to Gutrune. "Naught that was his is thine." Gutrune looked steadily at Bruennhilde, and believing that she spoke the truth, she crouched down beside her brother's body, and did not move again. Bruennhilde's appearance was so noble that her word convinced everybody and more than that, Siegfried's story and his last cry had told them the truth.

"Now," said Bruennhilde to the vassals, "bring great logs and heap them high beside the river Rhein. There shalt Siegfried's body find a tomb. Bring, too, his steed, and let it await me, here." While Bruennhilde knelt beside Siegfried's beloved body, the men heaped up the logs and the women strewed the top of the pile with garlands. The vassals came for Siegfried's body and as they lifted it, Bruennhilde drew the ring from his finger.

"There, ye sorrowing Rhein maidens, I give ye back this accursed ring," she cried. "Give heed, ye wayward sisters; this ring which has brought so much sorrow to Gods and men, shall now become yours. I thus restore the Rheingold to its owners. I place the ring upon my finger, and when I have leaped into the flames beside my Siegfried, the ring shall be purged by fire from all the stains that have come upon it since it was so wrongfully come by. Take the ring from amid the ashes, and return with it to your water-home." She flung a great brand upon the heap of wood where Siegfried's body lay, and immediately two ravens flew from the heap.

"Go thou, ye ravens, to Walhall, and tell Wotan what ye have seen. The end of Godhood is near. Then go to the rock where Loge burneth and tell him to go to Walhall." The ravens flew away, while the flames leaped about Siegfried. Turning to the horse, Grane, and putting her hand lovingly upon him, Bruennhilde took off his bridle. "Now, Siegfried, we join thee," she cried, and giving her great war-cry, Bruennhilde sprang upon the horse, and together they leaped upon the burning bier. Instantly the flames roared and flared high and seemed to seize upon the Hall of the Gibichungs, while all the company fled, crowding close together. When the fire was at its worst, the river Rhein overflowed its banks and rolled upon the land, extinguishing the flames. On the waves, the three Rhein-daughters swam and hovered over the place where the bodies were. Hagen, who saw before him the loss of the ring, became frantic with despair, so he rushed into the flood, to wrench the treasure from the maidens, but Woglinde and Wellgunde threw their arms about him, dragged him down into the depths, and swam away with him.

Flosshilde, having found the ring, swam before them, holding up the prize triumphantly. A great bank of clouds had piled up beyond the river, and soon this began to glow, as if with fire. The Rhein returned to its natural bed, while the maidens swam once more happily in its waters. The Hall of the Gibichungs had been destroyed, and all the vassals and women had crowded together, watching the scene with horror and wonderment. As the fiery clouds glowed more and more brightly, the Palace of the Gods appeared, and the inner courts of Walhall could be seen, brightly lighted by the fire which was consuming it. Wotan and the Eternals sat within, surrounded by the heroes and the Valkyries. All awaited the flames without resistance, and as the Gibichungs looked, Loge, the spirit of flame, seized upon everything and the Eternals were seen no more.

THE MASTERSINGERS OF NUREMBERG

CHARACTERS OF THE OPERA

Hans Sachs, shoemaker } Veit Pogner, goldsmith } Kunz Vogelgesang, furrier } Konrad Nachtigal, tinsmith } Sixtus Beckmesser, town clerk } Fritz Kothner, baker } Balthasar Zorn, pewterer } Mastersingers. Ulrich Eisslinger, grocer } Augustin Moser, tailor } Hermann Ortel, soap boiler } Hans Schwarz, stocking weaver } Hans Foltz, coppersmith } Walther von Stolzing, a young knight from Franconia. David, Sachs's apprentice. Eva, Pogner's daughter. Magdalene, Eva's nurse. Night Watchman.

Burghers, women of all guilds, journeymen, apprentices, girls, and people.

The action takes place in Nuremberg about the middle of the sixteenth century.

Composer: Richard Wagner.

ACT I

Four hundred years ago in Nuremberg there was a great rivalry among the townsmen, as to who was the best singer. Indeed, in the history of this great yearly competition, some had become so noted for their excellence, that in a spirit of fairness they had almost ceased to compete. There were twelve Mastersingers, and this number was to be added to by future competitions. Among those who had removed themselves from the contest (because his previous successes made it unfair that he should continue) was Hans Sachs, the cobbler. Hans was beloved by all, and had a spirit as well as a genius above his fellows.

The prize for which the singers contended had hitherto been a sum of money, given by the rich man of the city, one Veit Pogner, a goldsmith, but upon the occasion we are about to describe he had decided to make the prize far more precious. He agreed to give his daughter Eva in marriage to the best singer, provided she could love him; and if she could not love him, she was to live unmarried for the rest of her days.

On the morning of the preliminary trial, when those qualified to enter the real competition were to be chosen, the good folk of Nuremberg were assembled in the church, singing the last hymn. Eva and her nurse, Magdalene, were there and also the knight, Walther von Stolzing, a newcomer in Nuremberg, greatly in love with Eva. She, too, loved him, but it would have displeased her father had she been seen speaking with the handsome stranger.

Upon that day, both the young people lingered after the others had gone, in order to get speech together. All the time the hymn was being sung, the two looked tenderly at each other, and these glances were surprised by the devoted nurse, Magdalene. When the service was over, and Eva was near the door, she pretended to have left her handkerchief in her pew, and she sent Magdalene back to find it.

The lovers had but a minute together before Magdalene returned, so Eva had to think of a new way to be rid of her.

"Where can my buckle be," she cried, looking about her. "I must have left that as well"; and back Magdalene went the second time. She had no sooner returned than Eva found she had forgotten her book, and back the nurse went again, grumbling and declaring that Master Pogner would be in a rage if he knew what was going on.

"Only promise that thou wilt marry me," Walther urged, while the nurse was gone for the last time.

"Now what do you mean by standing there and talking love?" Magdalene cried on her return, angry and half frightened, because she was responsible for her nursling's conduct. "Don't you know, Sir Walther, that Eva is to be given in marriage to the singer who shall this year carry off the prize—otherwise she may not marry at all?"

"The prize? What does she mean?" he questioned, greatly agitated.

"It is for him who shall prove to be the best singer in Nuremberg." The knight looked dejected.

"Can you not sing?" Eva asked anxiously.

"Alas, I do not know. I think not; I have never tried. What must I sing?"

"A song that you have made yourself, Sir Knight; you must make both rhyme and music yourself according to the rules of the Mastersingers."

"I fear I could never do it—unless I should be inspired by my love for you. Alas! I fear we are lost unless your father can be persuaded to change his mind."

"Nay, he cannot." Eva shook her head sadly, "He has given his word and cannot break it. You must try to sing for love of me," she pleaded.

Walther was quite distracted at the prospect. Meantime, after the church had become empty, David, the apprentice of Hans Sachs, came in with a great piece of chalk stuck in his belt, and carrying a big rule. Magdalene was quite in love with David, so that when Eva appealed to her for help, she had turned her attention to the apprentice.

"David, what are you doing there?" she cried, in order to give the lovers a little more time.

"Doing? Why is it not weighty business to-day? The Mastersingers are to have a trial of voices, to be sure. The pupil, whoever he may be, whose voice is fine and whose composition breaks none of the rules that govern those things is to be made free to enter for the prize; and later, when the great festival of song is on, he may even become a Mastersinger, himself."

"There, Sir Knight, is your opportunity! You must be the pupil. Eva, we must be gone and leave Sir Walther to try for thee."

"Oh, heaven! I am all of a fright. I fear I shall never understand what is expected of me," Walther cried distractedly.

"David here shall tell you, Sir Walther. Here, David, help this brave gentleman all that you can. I wish it." She looked admonishment at him.

"Tell him all the plan of the Mastersingers and how they will expect him to conduct himself in the competition. Come, Eva." But Eva still lingered. In came two other apprentices, bearing benches. Walther watched those formidable preparations with uneasiness, walking up and down the church in dismay.

"Good heaven! I am sure I cannot sing. I have never tried to sing. I shall never be able to sing. Yet I must sing. What in the world can a man do, in such a fix?"

"Well, well, do the best you can. David will instruct you, Sir Knight," said Magdalene, and she hurried away with Eva, leaving the poor knight alone with the apprentices.

These chaps came in thick and fast, bringing benches for the Mastersingers to sit upon, and arranging everything in the church for the trial of song. David kept watching Walther, who had flung himself into a great ecclesiastical chair, and sat there brooding. After observing him in silence for a time, David shouted:

"Begin," Walther started.

"What for?"

"Begin!"

"What for?"

"What for?—why that is how the Marker calls. You must then at once go and sing. Don't you understand anything about this business?" he asked in amazement.

"Who is the Marker?" Poor Walther asked, more and more bewildered.

"Were you never before at a singing trial?"

"Not where the judges were craftsmen," Walther answered. He was quite certain if he knew anything about music, it could not be the kind that shoe-makers, and boiler makers, and the like were acquainted with.

"Are you a poet?"

"I wish I were," Walther sighed dejectedly.

"Are you then a 'scholar'?"

"Lord, no, I think not—I don't know. What is a 'scholar?"

"Don't know that, and yet expect to become a Mastersinger!" David cried, in amazement. "Well, now, let me tell you, Sir Knight, no one gets to be a Mastersinger in a minute! For a full year, Hans Sachs, our greatest master, has been teaching me the art, and I am not yet even a 'scholar.'"

Shoemaker's craft and Poet's art, Daily I learn by the heart. First, all the leather smooth I hammer, Consonants then, and vowels I stammer. Next must the thread be stiff with wax, Then I must learn it rhymes with Sachs.

David continued to tell of the difficulties of learning from a cobbler how to become a Mastersinger, though the cobbler was one himself. By the time David had finished telling Walther about the process of shoemaking and music making, Walther threw up his hands in despair.

"Defend me from learning—the cobbler's trade," he cried, half humorously, yet troubled.

"You must learn:

The shortened, long, and over-long tones; The paper mode, the black-ink mode; The scarlet, blue, and verdant tones; The hawthorn bloom, strawhalm, fennel mode: The tender, the dulcet, the rosy tone; The passing passion, the forgotten tone; The rosemary, wallflower mode; The rainbow mode and the nightingale mode The English tin, the cinnamon mode, Fresh pomegranates, green linden-bloom mode; The lonely gormandizer mode, The skylark, the snail, the barking tone; And the honey flower, the marjoram mode; The lion's skin, true pelican mode, The bright glittering thread mode."

"Dreadful, dreadful," cried poor Walther. "What an endless medley of tones!"

"Oh, those are only the titles; after that comes the singing—and it has to be according to rules, remember."

Walther groaned. David at once outlined some of the rules; they appeared quite hopeless.

"Why no one in the world could meet such demands, it is ridiculous."

"You had better not say so," David answered, significantly. "I want you to know that the great Mastersingers of Nuremberg run this thing; and it doesn't make any difference to anybody but you and Herr Pogner's daughter whether you approve or not." At the mention of Eva, Walther tried to control his feelings; he must try at least, the Lord help him—to come out somewhere in the midst of all that shoemaker's music of "modes" and "thread" and "buttons" and what-not!

By this time the apprentices had erected a small stage with a chair and a desk upon it and a blackboard behind, with a piece of chalk hanging from a long string upon the board, and all about that funny arrangement were black curtains which could be drawn close.

"The Marker will let seven faults slip by," David explained to the knight; but if he finds more than seven it is all over for the candidate.

So God save you from disaster, May you, to-day, be a master,

he wound up poetically.

Having finished their preparations, the apprentices began to dance about in a ring. In the midst of the jollity in came Pogner from the sacristy; also, Beckmesser, who was the town clerk and a singer who believed in himself.

David took his place at the sacristy door, to let in the other Mastersingers, and the other apprentices stood waiting before the bench at back. Walther, sick to death through being teased by the apprentices, had sat himself down on the very front seat, and there, before all, was the dreaded Marker's seat. There was the great "singing chair"—where the candidate was to sit while under trial. Pogner stood talking with the town clerk, Beckmesser.

"Herr Pogner," the latter was saying, "I know what this prize is to be, and I love your daughter with all my soul." Beckmesser, who was a rather old and absurd chap, made a sentimental and dramatic gesture. "I want to beg of you if there is any preference shown, that it be shown to me."

"I cannot say there will be any favours shown, Beckmesser, but my plan should serve you well. Eva is to go to the best singer—in case of course that she loves him. She shall not be forced; and who sings so well as you?"

"Yet, in certain respects, I am weak," Beckmesser murmured. "I should like those weak points to be passed over." He was a foxy old fellow, far too old for the lovely Eva, and he was quite willing to take an unfair advantage of his brother singers.

Walther then jumped from his chair and went to Pogner.

"Herr Pogner, may I have speech with you?" he asked.

"What, Sir Walther seeks me in singing school?"

"Yet it is a fitting place, because, to tell the truth, Herr Pogner, I came to Nuremberg town, solely for the love of art," he said promptly, hoping he would be forgiven for the lie. "I failed to mention this yesterday, but to-day it seems fitting to tell you because I wish to enter the competition. In short, I wish to become a Mastersinger." Walther was fairly amazed at his own bravado. At the same moment, Kunz Vogelgesang and Konrad Nachtigal entered.

"Vogelgesang, Nachtigal, listen to this: here is a noble knight, Walther of Stolzing, well known to me, who wishes to join our singing. This is very fine. I am sure we all welcome you to our guild, Sir Walther," he cried heartily. Beckmesser, who had observed the handsome Walther, became uneasy.

"If anything should go wrong with my singing," he thought, "I should stand small chance any other way with this whipper-snapper. I'll go to-night beneath Eva's window and sing a serenade which will surely win her heart. I'll not lose her even if this great knight should prove to be a great singer." Every time he thought of Walther, it was with a sneer. On the whole, Beckmesser was a nasty little man, even though he was quite a singer. He was old and ugly and it was quite ridiculous of him to think of marrying Eva.

Walther, still speaking with Pogner, confessed:

"My strongest reason for entering this competition is love for your dear daughter. I know well that she is to be the prize." Pogner was well pleased, for he liked the knight.

"I am glad to hear you say this, Sir Knight; but the matter has to be settled—after the promise I have given—according to certain regulations set down by the Mastersingers; but I shall try to give you the best of chances." Pogner said this heartily, for he would like to have that fine fellow for a son-in-law. Meanwhile, all the Mastersingers had arrived by way of the sacristy door, and Hans Sachs the very last. Kothner took from his pocket the list of names of those who were to sing, and standing apart, he began to call the roll. Each responded to his name, and then Pogner formally announced what the prize was to be. Each man cried that he would be the one to win the prize—since it was such a prize.

"But remember," Pogner interrupted their enthusiasm, "although I am determined she shall marry none but him who wins the prize, if she should not love that singer, she shall not be forced, but shall remain single all the rest of her life"; and with that they had to be content.

"Let me make still a suggestion, Herr Pogner," Hans Sachs, the shoemaker spoke up. He loved Eva with all his heart, but he was good and true and fair. He knew that he was growing old, and that he sang so finely that it was not fair he should enter into such a competition. If he sang for the prize, the contest would be won before it was begun. "Let me suggest that all the people of Nuremberg shall have a hand in choosing the best singer. To-morrow at the fete, let all the people hear the singers, and let theirs be the choice."

"Ho, ho! Then farewell, art," the Mastersingers cried, indignantly. "That is a fine joke, indeed, Sachs. Pray what do the people know about art? What do they know of the singing master's rules? Bah!"

"Listen!" Sachs said, impressively. "That which the people approve, is good; they know naught of rule, but they know what beauty of song and theme is better that we. Leave it to the people's choice and you shall not rue it. Besides, a maiden's heart is to be disposed of, and those who are judges among us are not without selfish feelings. Let the people decide and leave the maiden free."

"Oh, I suppose you are thinking and speaking for yourself—a widower," Beckmesser cried, trying to belittle the shoemaker.

"So little is that so, my friends, that I shall not sing." Every one loved Hans Sachs and now recognized his generosity. "I am too old for such as she." Thereupon Beckmesser became furious, because he was older than Hans, yet he considered himself quite young enough to marry her.

"Well, my friends, there is one more piece of business: this young knight," leading forth Walther, "wishes to enter the race, and I present him with right good will." This was almost too much for the beset Beckmesser. He fairly foamed at the mouth.

"Now, I understand this matter," he muttered aside. "Pogner would have it seem that he treated us fairly in this matter, while in reality he had this handsome fellow up his sleeve. A knight at that, and if he can sing it certainly is all up with the rest of us." He loudly declared it was far too late for Walther to be let into the competition; but there were several opinions about that, and a good deal of wrangling. All were somewhat afraid of Walther, not knowing that he had no confidence in his own singing or making of verses. At last it was decided that he should have a trial that morning.

"But thou must say who has been thy master," they insisted; whereupon Walther named a great master, Sir Walther of the Vogelweid.

"In truth," Hans Sachs said, nodding kindly. "He is a great master." Hans meant to stand by the knight and to serve him if possible, because he seemed the best choice for Eva, whom Sachs loved above everything. Walther added that, for the most part, he had learned his songs from the birds, titmouses, and finches, and the like. He loved the woods and streams, and a joyous heart made him sing in spite of himself, and the song of birds was the one he loved best to imitate. The others were inclined to jeer at these words, but Hans Sachs saw in them a beautiful nature, fine poesy.

"Very well, very well, let him begin," all cried, and so the knight took his place in the singer's chair while Beckmesser, who was appointed Marker, went to his place.

"As Marker, I guess I can settle his affair for him," Beckmesser muttered, in malice. All the while Walther, was in despair, having no confidence in himself.

"It is for thee, beloved," he murmured, trying to gain courage by putting his thoughts upon Eva. Then Beckmesser, hidden behind the curtain, cried:

"Now begin."

Walther hesitated a moment, then began, uncertainly, to sing. It was a beautiful song of the spring. At the end of the first part, Beckmesser scratched horribly upon his slate, and sighed in a most disconcerting manner. Walther listened and his heart nearly failed him, but he began again. This time he sang of winter, and as he went on he became so much inspired that he forgot his tremendous anxiety, rose from his chair, and sang passionately, with abandon. When he came to a pause in the theme, Beckmesser burst into the group with his slate. It was all covered with chalk marks.

"Will you never have done," he shouted angrily. "I've no more room in which to set marks against you. If we must go on listening to such singing we must use the side of the church if we would have room to set down your mistakes." Every one but Hans Sachs burst out laughing.

"But I have not finished," Walther pleaded. "Will none of you let me finish my song, good friends? It is not fair."

"That is true, that is true, not too much zeal, Beckmesser," Hans tried to interpose. Everybody was talking at once.

"I could not understand one word of his meaning," one cried.

"There was false time, false everything; it was ridiculous!" another shouted.

"The most absurd thing I ever heard," another called. In short, every one shouted and mocked and offered suggestions, except Hans Sachs who had stood apart, and after the first notes of Walther, had listened with great earnestness. In the midst of the excitement he came forward.

"Master Beckmesser, you have gone too far. We do not all agree with your opinion. The song which you despise, I find both beautiful, new, and free from fault. It is not such as we sing, but it is true and fine. I fear you have forgotten your own rules."

"Never, never!" the Marker shouted.

"Now, friends, hear my final word. This young knight shall be heard to the end." With a decisive gesture he motioned Walther to the chair again. All shouted "No, no!" but Sachs insisted and amidst the riot and hullabaloo Walther again began his song. His clear, beautiful voice was heard above the noise, but every one was engaged in telling what they thought about it. Only Sachs stood determined, trying to quiet the frightful uproar. Beckmesser was making a terrible to-do, and the apprentices were shouting with laughter, following the lead of their masters. After a little, Walther became so confused that at last he could sing no longer.

The apprentices began to dance wildly about their masters, and in the midst of the extraordinary scene, the knight descended from the chair, and turned away with a contemptuous glance. He was about to go, as the Mastersingers were struggling toward the door; but to add to the confusion the apprentices who had torn up the benches began marching about with them. While Walther, the Mastersingers, and the apprentices were struggling out, Sachs stood looking at the singer's chair, where Walther had lately sat, singing so beautifully that none but the splendid Sachs, with his good soul and his poetic nature, had been able to understand how great it was.

ACT II

Night of the same day came on, and David and other apprentices were putting up the shutters of their masters' houses, before it became too late. Hans Sachs's house—which was also his workshop—stood in a corner made by a little crooked path which crossed a Nuremberg street; while Pogner's house, much finer—altogether quite grand—stood opposite. Beside Hans's house grew an elder tree, and beside Pogner's, a lime. Magdalene, very anxious to know from David what had taken place in the church, had gone from her master's house with a little basket of the good things which David liked. This gave her a good excuse to seek him.

"What happened to the handsome knight?" she inquired, standing on Hans's side of the way, and speaking with David.

"Why what should happen? He was rejected, of course," David answered sulkily, while all the other apprentice boys laughed at him because Magdalene, his sweetheart, was trying to pump him.

"Ho, ho! Then you get nothing out of my basket," she answered, walking off. Again the boys mocked him, and he grew very angry, telling them to be off about their business. The quarrel grew so loud that finally Sachs, coming home unexpectedly, burst into the midst of them and scattered them.

"What is all this?" he cried.

"The rascals are plaguing me, master," David growled.

"Well, get thee within and light the lamp; lock up and bring the lamp here to me; after that, put the shoes on the lasts and go"; and as David went into the workshop to obey, Sachs followed. At that moment, Eva and her father passed along the path, and seeing the light in Sachs's house, Pogner peeped through the chink of the door.

"If Sachs is there I shall stop in and speak with him," he said to Eva. David just then came from the house with a lamp which he placed upon the work-bench, and seating himself began work upon a pair of shoes.

"To-morrow will be a fine day for the festival," Pogner said to his daughter, as they seated themselves upon a stone bench, on their own side of the path.

"But, father, must I certainly marry the best singer?" Eva asked anxiously.

"Not unless he pleases thee; but in case he does not, Eva, I have decided that thou shalt marry no other." He was interrupted by Magdalene who came to bid them to supper. Eva lingered behind to get a private word with her.

"What about the knight? Did he succeed?" she asked so anxiously that it broke Magdalene's heart to tell her the truth.

"David said not—but he would not tell what had happened."

"Maybe I can learn from Hans Sachs; he loves me very much, and may feel some distress over my trouble. I shall ask him." Just then Sachs came to the door of his house.

"Come, boy," he said to David, "put up thy work for the night, and get thee to bed; to-morrow will be a busy day. Put my stool and table outside the door that I may finish a pair of shoes, and then get thee to bed." David gathered up his tools, and after arranging Sachs's work bade him good night. Sachs sat down, with his hands behind his head, and instead of going at once to work, began to think upon the day's happenings—and other things, maybe. He leaned his arms upon the lower half of the door and sometimes spoke his thoughts aloud:

"Truly the young knight is a poet," he mused. Hans himself was a true poet, tender and loving, and he could think of nothing but Eva's good. Becoming nervous and apprehensive while thinking of her he began to hammer at a shoe, but again he ceased to work and tried to think. "I still hear that strain of the young knight's" and he tried to recall some part of the song. While he mused thus alone, Eva stole shyly over to the shop. It had now become quite dark and the neighbours were going to bed.

"Good evening, Master Sachs! You are still at work?" she asked softly. Hans started.

"Yes, my child, my dear Evchen. I am still at work. Why are you still awake? Ah, I know—it is about your fine new shoes that you have come, those for to-morrow!"

"Nay, they look so rich and fine, I have not even tried them on."

"Yet to-morrow you must wear them as a bride, you know."

"Whose shoes are these that you work upon, Master Sachs," she asked, wishing to change the subject.

"These are the shoes of the great Master Beckmesser," Sachs answered, smiling a little at the thought of the bumptious old fellow.

"In heaven's name put plenty of pitch in them, that he may stick, and not be able to come after me," she cried.

"What—you do not favour Beckmesser, then?"

"That silly old man," she said scornfully.

"Well, there is a very scanty batch of bachelors to sue for thee, or sing for thee," Hans answered, looking lovingly at her, with a little smile.

"Well, there are some widowers," Eva said returning his friendly look. Hans laughed outright.

"Ah, dear Evchen, it is not for an old chap like me to snare a young bird like thee. At the trial to-day, things did not go well," he ventured, trying to turn the conversation.

Instantly Eva was all attention, and she got from him the story of Walther's failure and unfair treatment, just as Magdalene called from the house over the way.

"St—st," she whispered. "Thy father has called for thee."

"I'll come presently," Eva answered. Then to Hans: "But tell me, dear Hans, was there not one who was his friend? Is there no hope?"

"No master has hope among other masters," Hans replied, sorrowfully. "I fear there is nothing for him but to give thee up." Hans knew well that Eva loved the knight.

"What man has a friend, whose own greatness makes other men feel small?" he asked still more sadly. "It is the way with men."

"It is shameful," she cried angrily, and hurried across the street. Hans closed the upper half of his door, so that he was almost shut in, and only a little light showed through.

"Eva," Magdalene called at the house door, "that Beckmesser has been here to say he is coming to serenade you, and to win your love. Did ever one hear of such a ridiculous rascal."

"I will not hear him," Eva declared angrily. "I will not. I am going to see Walther to-night, and I will not see Beckmesser. Look out and see if any one is coming." Walther was at that moment coming round the corner of the path, and Eva rushed toward him.

"You have heard—that I may not sing to win thee?" he said under his breath, for fear Pogner should hear him. At that moment the horn of the Night Warder was heard, which assured them that the town was all quiet and people gone to bed.

"It does not matter, I have made up my mind. I will never give the victor's crown to any one but thee, and so we shall flee together—this night, at once, before it is too late." Walther, beside himself with joy, looked after her while she hurried into the house to get ready for flight. The Night Warder came round the house corner.

Hear all folk, the Warder's ditty, 'Tis ten o'clock in our city; Heed well your fire and eke your light, That none may be harmed this night! Praise ye God, the Lord!

He blew a long loud blast upon his trumpet.

Hans Sachs had heard the plan concocted between the lovers, from behind his nearly closed door; so he put out the lamp, that he might not be seen, and opened his door a little way. He could never permit them to elope; it would cause no end of trouble. After a moment Eva and Magdalene came from Pogner's house with a bundle, while at the same moment Walther came from the shadow of the lime tree to meet them. They were hurrying off together when the clever shoemaker caught up his lamp from its place of concealment and turned it full upon the alley-way, so that it shone directly upon the path of the lovers.

Eva and Walther found themselves standing together in a bright light, when they had thought to escape unseen in the darkness. Again the Warder's horn was heard at a distance.

"Oh, good gracious! We shall be caught," Eva whispered, frightened half to death, as Walther drew her out of the streaming light.

"Which way shall we go?" he whispered, uneasily.

"Alas! look there—at that old rascal, Beckmesser," she returned, distracted with fright and anger, as she saw the old fool come in sight with his lute strung over his shoulder, while he twanged it lightly.

The moment Hans saw Beckmesser he had a new thought. He withdrew the light a little and opened the door. Then in the half light he placed his bench in the doorway and began to work upon a pair of shoes.

"It is that horrible Marker who counted me out this morning," Walther murmured, looking at Beckmesser as he stole along the pathway. Then almost at once, Beckmesser began to bawl under Eva's window.

He looked up where he supposed her to be, in the most languishing manner, so that Walther and Eva would have laughed outright, if they had not been in such a coil.

He no sooner had struck the first notes, than Hans Sachs gave a bang upon his shoe-last. Thus began an awful scrimmage. Hans Sachs, disliking the absurd old Beckmesser as much, if not more, than others did, banged away at Beckmesser's shoes, in a most energetic way. He made such a frightful din that Beckmesser could hardly hear himself sing.

The town clerk tried by every device to stop the shoemaker,—to get him to put aside his cobbling for the night, but Hans answered that he had to work lively if he hoped to get the shoes done for the fete. Beckmesser did not dare tell why he was there, singing at that hour. Walther and Eva remained prisoners under the lime tree, wondering what on earth to do. After a while, poor Beckmesser, making the most frantic efforts to hear his own voice, pleaded with Hans to stop.

"I'll tell thee what to do—it will make the time pass pleasantly for me as well, you see," Hans cried. "Do thou go ahead and sing, and I'll be Marker. For every mistake of thine, I'll hammer the shoe. Of course there will be so few mistakes that there will then be but little pounding." Beckmesser caught at that suggestion. Of course it was imprudent, but then Beckmesser was in a bad way, and it was his only chance. So he began his serenade once more. Then Hans began to "mark" him. Before he had sung a line, Hans's hammer was banging away in the most remarkable manner. Even Walther and Eva had to laugh, frightened as they were. Beckmesser became so furious he could hardly speak. Sachs pretended to see nothing, and "marked" away valiantly. Then the Night Watch could be heard coming. Hans banged louder. Beckmesser put his fingers in his ears, that he might drown the sound of Hans and the Warder, and keep on the key. Hans too began to sing as he waxed his threads and banged upon his shoes. Meantime windows were going up, the people who had gone to bed having wakened.

"Stop your bawling there," one shouted.

"Leave off howling," another screamed.

"What's the matter? Have you gone crazy down there," others yelled, but Beckmesser still shrieked, unable to hear anybody but himself and Hans.

"Listen to that donkey bray," a neighbour called.

"Hear the wild-cat," another bawled; and in the midst of the singing Magdalene stuck her head out of the window. Beckmesser, thinking it was Eva, was encouraged to keep on, but David, who had come out at the rumpus, believed that Beckmesser was serenading Magdalene, and instantly became jealous. So out he rushed with a cudgel. The neighbours then began to come from their houses in their night-gowns and caps; some wearing red flannel about their heads and some in very short gowns, and all looking very funny. Meanwhile, Hans, who had got the row started, withdrew into his house and shut the door. Walther and Eva were still trembling under the lime tree, sure of being discovered, now that all Nuremberg was aroused and on the spot.

Beckmesser was surrounded by the neighbours, the apprentices came from every shop to swell the crowd, also the journeymen, while all the women bawled from the house windows where they were hanging out half way. David and Beckmesser were wrestling all over the place, Beckmesser's lute being smashed and his clothes torn off him. At last the Mastersingers themselves arrived.

Walther, at last deciding that the time had come when he must rescue Eva, drew his sword and rushed forth. Hans, who had been watching behind his door, then ran out, pushed his way through the mob and caught Walther by the arm. At that moment—Poof! Bist! the women in the windows threw down buckets of water over all the people, and Beckmesser was half drowned in the streams. This added to the confusion, so that Hans grasped Walther, and Pogner his daughter; Sachs and Walther retired into Sachs's house and Eva was dragged within her own. As Sachs disappeared, he gave David a kick which sent him flying, to pay him for his part in the fight.

Beckmesser, battered half to pieces, limped off, while the crowd, dripping wet and with ardour cooled, slunk out. When all was perfectly quiet and safe, and not a sound stirring, on came the Night Warder. It was comical to see the way he looked all about the deserted place, as if he had been taking a little nap, while all Nuremberg had been fighting like wild-cats, and he quavered out in a shaky voice:

Hear, all folks, the Warder's ditty, Eleven strikes in our city, Defend yourselves from spectre and sprite, That no evil imp your soul affright.

He finished with a long-drawn cry:

Praise ye God, the Lord,

and all was still.

ACT III

The morning of the song festival dawned clear and fine. Early in the morning, Hans Sachs seated himself in his shop, beside his sunny window, his work on the bench before him, but he let it go unheeded as he fell to reading. David found his master thus employed when he stole into the shop, after peeping to make sure that Hans would pay no attention to him. David was not at all sure of the reception his master would give him after the riot in which he had taken a hand the night before. As Hans did not look up, David set the basket he carried upon the table, and began to take out the things in it. First there were flowers and bright-coloured ribbons, and at the very bottom a cake and a sausage. He was just beginning to eat the sausage when Hans Sachs turned a page of his book noisily. David, knowing his guilty part in the fight, looked warily at his master.

"Master, I have taken the shoes to Beckmesser and——" Sachs looked at him abstractedly.

"Do not disturb our guest, Sir Walther," he said, seeming to forget David's misbehaviour. "Eat thy cakes and be happy—only do not wake our guest."

Soon David went out while Sachs still sat thinking of the situation and half decided to take a part in the contest himself—since it were a shame to have Beckmesser win Eva. While he was thus lost in contemplation, Walther woke and came from his room.

"Ah, dear Hans—I have had a glorious dream," he cried. "It is so splendid that I hardly dare think of it."

"Can it be thou hast dreamed a song?" Sachs asked breathlessly.

"Even if I had, what help would it bring me, friend Sachs, since the Mastersingers will not treat me fairly?"

"Stay, stay, Walther, not so fast! I want to say of yesterday's experience: the Mastersingers are, after all, men of honour. They were hard on thee yesterday, but thou hast troubled them much. Thy song was as strange, its kind as new to them as it was beautiful, and they have thought of it again and again since then. If they can make themselves familiar with such beauty they will not fail to give thee credit. I own I am much troubled and know not what to do for you."

"I wonder could it be possible that I have had an inspiration in my sleep that might lead me to win my dear Eva?" the knight said, taking heart.

"That we shall soon know. Sir Walther, stand thou there, and sing thy song, and I will sit here and write it down. So it shall not escape thee. Come, begin, Sir Knight," Sachs cried, becoming hopeful for the young man. Trembling with anxiety Walther took his stand and began his song, while Hans placed himself at the table to write it down.

[Music:

Bathed in the sunlight at dawn of the day, when blossoms rare made sweet the air, with beauties teeming, past all dreaming, a glorious garden lay, cheering my way.]

As the knight sang he became more and more inspired and when he had finished Hans Sachs was wild with delight.

"It is true!—you have had a wonderful inspiration. Go now to your room, and there you will find clothing gay enough for this great occasion. No matter how it came there!—it is there! I have all along believed in you, and that you would sing, and I have provided for it." The knight went rejoicing to put on his new clothes.

Now Hans, when he went with Walther to his bedroom, had left the manuscript of the great song upon the table, and no sooner had he gone out than Beckmesser, looking through the window and finding the place empty, slipped in. He was limping from the effects of the fight and altogether cut a most ridiculous figure. He was very richly dressed, but that did not conceal his battered appearance. Every step he took he rubbed first his back and then his shins. He should have been in bed and covered with liniments. Suddenly he espied the song upon Hans's table. He believed that after all Hans was going to sing, and if he should, all would be up with himself. Wild with rage, Beckmesser picked up the song and stuffed it into his pocket. No sooner had he done so than the bedroom door opened, and Hans Sachs came out in gala dress, ready for the festival; seeing Beckmesser, he paused in surprise.

"What, you? Sir Marker? Surely those shoes of yours do not give you trouble so soon?"

"Trouble! The devil! Such shoes never were. They are so thin, I can feel the smallest cobblestone through them. No matter about the shoes, however—though I came to complain to you about them—for I have found another and far worse cause of complaint. I thought you were not to sing."

"Neither am I."

"What, you deny it—when I have just found you out!" Beckmesser cried in a foaming rage. Hans looked at the table and saw that the manuscript was gone. He grinned.

"So, you took the song, did you?" he asked.

"The ink was still wet."

"True, I'll be bound!"

"So then I've caught you deceiving!"

"Well, at least you never caught me stealing, and to save you from the charge I'll just give you that song," Hans replied, still smiling. Beckmesser stared at him.

"I'll warrant you have the song by heart," he said, narrowly eyeing the shoemaker.

"No, that I haven't. And further than that, I'll promise you not to lay any claim to it that shall thwart your use of it—if you really want it." Hans spoke carelessly, watching the greedy town clerk from the tail of his eye.

"You mean truly, that I may use that song as I like?"

"Sing it if you like—and know how," Sachs said obligingly.

"A song by Hans Sachs!" he exclaimed, unable to hide his joy—because no one in Nuremberg could possibly write a song like Sachs. "Well, well, this is very decent of you, Sachs! I can understand how anxious you are to make friends with me, after your bad treatment last night." Beckmesser spoke patronizingly, while his heart was fairly bursting with new hope. Any song by Hans Sachs would certainly win him the prize, even if he could but half sing it.

"If I am to oblige you by using this song," he hesitated, "then swear to me you will not undo me by laying claim to it." After all, he was feeling considerable anxiety about it. That he should be saved in this manner was quite miraculous.

"I'll give my oath never to claim it so long as I live," Sachs answered earnestly, thinking all the while what a rascal Beckmesser was. "But, friend Beckmesser, one word; I am no scoffer, but truly, knowing the song as I do, I have my doubts about your being able to learn it in an hour or so. The song is not easy."

"Have no fear, Hans Sachs. As a poet, your place is first, I know; but believe me, friend, when it comes to 'tone' and 'mode,' and the power to sing, I confess I have no fear—nor an equal," the conceited ass declared. "I tell you, confidentially, I have now no fear of that presumptuous fellow, Walther. With this song and my great genius, we shall no longer fear his bobbing upon the scene and doing harm." Assured of success at last, away went Beckmesser, limping and stumbling, to learn his song.

"Well, never did I see so malicious a fellow," Hans declared, as Beckmesser stumbled out of sight. "And there comes Evchen—hello, my Evchen, thou art dressed very fine. Well, well, it is to be thy wedding day, to be sure."

"Yes—but the shoe pinches," she said putting her little foot upon the bench.

"That will never do. That must be fixed," Hans answered gravely, his eyes twinkling. He fell to examining the shoes. "Why, my child, what is wrong with it? I find it a very fine fit?"

"Nay, it is too broad."

"Tut, tut, that is thy vanity. The shoe fits close, my dear."

"Well, then I think it is the toes that hurt—or maybe the heel, or maybe—" she looked all about, hoping to see Walther. At that moment he entered, and Eva cried out. Then Hans said:

"Ah, ah! Ho, ho! That is where the shoe pinches, eh? Well, be patient, that fault I shall mend very soon," he declared, thinking of the song that Beckmesser had stolen, while he took off the shoe and sat once more at his bench. Then he said slyly:

"Lately I heard a beauteous song. I would I might hear its third verse once more." Immediately, Walther, looking at Eva, began softly to sing the famous song. As it magically swelled, Sachs came to her and again fitted the shoes. When the song was rapturously finished, Eva burst into hysterical sobbing, and threw herself into the shoemaker's arms. But this scene was interrupted by the coming of Lena and David, all dressed for the fete.

"Come, just in time!" Sachs cried. "Now listen to what I have to say, children. In this room, a song has just been made by this knight, who duly sang it before me and before Eva. Now, do not forget this, I charge you; so let us be off to hear him christened a Mastersinger."

All then went out into the street except David, who lingered a moment to fasten up the house. All the way to the meadow where the fete was to be held were sounding trumpets and horns, glad shouts and laughter. Very soon the little group from Sachs's reached the fete, and there they found a gala sight.

Many guilds had arrived and were constantly arriving. Colours were planted upon the raised benches which each guild occupied by itself. A little stream ran through the meadow, and upon its waters boats were continually being rowed, full of laughing men and women, girls and boys. As each new guild disembarked, it planted its colours. Refreshment stands were all about, and apprentices and journeymen were having great sport.

The apprentices and girls began a fine dance, while the people kept landing at the dock and coming from their boats.

There came the bakers, the tailors, and the smiths; then the informal gaiety came to a sudden pause and the cry went up that the great Mastersingers themselves had arrived. They disembarked and formed a long procession, Kothner going ahead bearing the banner, which had the portrait of King David and his harp upon it.

At sight of the banner all waved their hats, while the Masters proceeded to their platform.

When they had reached their place, Pogner led Eva forward, and at the same moment Hans Sachs arrived and again all waved and cheered loudly. Eva took the place of honour, and behind them all was—Beckmesser, wildly struggling to learn his great song. He kept taking the manuscript from his pocket and putting it back, sweating and mumbling, standing first on one of his sore feet and then upon the other, a ridiculous figure, indeed.

At length, Sachs stood up and spoke to those who had welcomed him so graciously.

"Friends, since I am beloved of thee, I have one favour to ask. The prize this day is to be a unique one, and I ask that the contest be open. It is no more than fair, since so much is to be won. I ask that no one who shall ask for a chance to sing for this fair prize be denied. Shall this be so?"

While he waited for an answer, every one was in commotion.

"Say, Marker," he asked of Beckmesser, "is this not as it should be?"

That rascal was wiping his face from which the sweat was streaming and trying in despair to conquer the knight's song.

"You know you need not sing that song unless you wish," Hans reminded him, aside.

"My own is abandoned, and now it is too late for me to make another," Beckmesser moaned; "but with you out of the contest—well, I shall surely win with anything. You must not desert me now."

"Well, let it be agreed," Hans cried aloud, "that the contest shall be open to all; so now begin."

"The oldest first," Kothner cried, thus calling attention to the age of Beckmesser. "Begin, Beckmesser," another shouted.

"Oh, the devil," Beckmesser moaned, trying to peep again at the song which he had not been able to learn. He desperately ascended the mound which was reserved for the singers, escorted by an apprentice. He stumbled and nearly fell, so excited was he, and so frightened at his plight, for he did not know the song, and he had none of his own. Altogether he was in a bad way—but he was yet to be in a worse!

"Come and make this mound more firm," he snarled, nearly falling down. At that everybody laughed. Finally he placed himself, and all waited for him to begin. This is how he sang the words of the first stanza:

Bathing in sunlight at dawning of the day, With bosom bare, To greet the air; My beauty steaming, Faster dreaming, A garden roundelay wearied my way.

Only compare this with the words of the song as Walther sang them! The music matched the words for absurdity.

"Good gracious! He's lost his senses," one Mastersinger said to another. Beckmesser, realizing that he was not getting the song right, became more and more confused. He felt the amazement of the people, and that made him desperate. At last, half crazed with rage and shame, he pulled the song from his pocket and peeped at it. Then he tried again, but turned giddy, and at last tottered down from the mound, while people began to jeer at him. Hans Sachs might have been sorry for the wretch, had he not known how dishonest he had been, willing to use another's song that he might gain the prize.

Beckmesser rushed furiously toward Sachs and shook his fist at him:

"Oh, ye accursed cobbler! Ye have ruined me," he screamed, and rushing madly away he lost himself in the crowd. In his rage, he had screamed that the song was Sachs's, but nobody would believe him, because, as Beckmesser had sung it, it had sounded so absurd.

Sachs took the manuscript quietly up, after Beckmesser had thrown it down.

"The song is not mine," he declared. "But I vow it is a most lovely song, and that it has been sung wrong. I have been accused of making this, and now I deny it. I beg of the one who wrote it to come forth now and sing it as it should be sung. It is the song of a great master, believe me, friends and Mastersingers. Poet, come forth, I pray you," he called, and then Walther stepped to the mound, modestly. Every one beheld him with pleasure. He was indeed a fine and gallant-looking fellow.

"Now, Masters, hold the song; and since I swear that I did not write it, but know the one who did—let my words be proved. Stand, Sir Knight, and prove my truth." Then Kothner took the manuscript that the Mastersingers might follow the singing and know if the knight was honest; and Walther, standing in the singers' place, began the song a little fearfully.

The Masters following him recognized the truth of all that Hans Sachs had spoken, and presently dropped the paper in amazement. They became lost in listening to the music, which swelled higher and higher, growing more and more beautiful with every measure, till all the people of Nuremberg sat spellbound. At last:

"His prize, his prize!" they shouted; and Pogner came to him weeping with joy.

"It is thy doing," Walther said tremblingly to Hans; and then he was conducted to where Eva awaited him. He stooped and she placed the victor's wreath upon his head. But that was not the end. The Mastersingers turned to Pogner:

"Herr Pogner, it is thy right to crown the knight who has won this prize," and with that Pogner hung a golden chain about Walther's neck, from which was suspended three medals. Walther would have refused it.

"I have a dearer prize than this, my friends," he cried, looking at Eva.

"Nay, take thy chain, too," Sachs urged him, smiling. "That shall be the sign of the Mastersingers' approval." Walther bowed his head and received the chain, while the people stood up and shouted.

Thus in one day, the knight, Walther von Stolzing, became a bridegroom and a Mastersinger.

LOHENGRIN

CHARACTERS OF THE OPERA

Lohengrin, Knight of the Holy Grail. Henry I, King of Germany. Frederick of Telramund, a noble of Brabant. The Royal Herald. Gottfried, Elsa's brother, and mute. Four nobles of Brabant. Elsa von Brabant. Ortrud, wife of Telramund. Four pages.

Saxons, nobles of Brabant, ladies, and pages.

The story is laid in Antwerp, during the first half of the tenth century.

First production at Weimar, Germany, August 28, 1850.

Composer: Richard Wagner.

ACT I

On a meadow on the banks on the river Scheldt, King Henry and his Saxon nobles were one day assembled in their hall of justice, which in those times was beneath a broad-spreading oak. From another petty German political division had come Frederick of Telramund, with his wife Ortrud. In turn they were surrounded by their own retainers from their province, but all were assembled at King Henry's call to rally in defence of the Kingdom.

When all were awaiting Henry's will, his Herald stepped forth and blew a blast upon his trumpet.

"Hark! Princes, Nobles, Freemen of Brabant! Our sovereign has called ye all to rally to his defence. May he count upon the loyalty of all?"

At once, the nobles took up the cry, and welcomed their sovereign to the country. Then King Henry thanked them for their good will and made the following announcement:

"Nobles, Freemen, all! I come not only to receive this welcome, but to tell ye that Germany is in danger of invasion from the Hungarian hordes; and that upon our frontiers there are German wives and children praying for our protecting arms. As the nation's guardian it is fitting that I make an end of this misrule which has left us threatened again and again by this lawless people. As ye will recall, I made a nine years' truce with our enemies, when they last tormented us; and now the time is past, they demand a tribute which, for the sake of our people, I have refused them. It is time for us to up and arm against them, and once for all defeat them."

Henry spoke earnestly, with evident devotion to his subjects, and both Saxons and Brabantians responded, but the men of Brabant looked to their immediate Lord, Frederick of Telramund, for assent. He hesitated a moment, and then stepped before the King.

"Great King," he said, "thou art here to judge, to listen to the differences of thy people, to make wrong right, so far as in thee lies, and on my part I will not stoop to falsehood. I have a grievance. Thou knowest when death took away our beloved Duke, his children, Elsa and Gottfried, were left in my charge. I became their guardian. I treasured them and guarded their interests valiantly; but one day, the two wandered forth into the forest. In time Elsa, the elder, returned, trembling and seemingly full of fear. She was alone, and when questioned about the safety of her young brother could tell us nothing. We sought for him, but never found him. She pretended to be in great distress, but her manner betrayed her guilt; of that I am certain. There were but they two, alone, and yet she could give us no intelligent story of his disappearance. A horror of the young girl fell upon me. I could not bear her in my sight, because I felt she was responsible for her young brother's death. Her hand had been offered me in marriage by her father, but feeling that she was guilty, I gave her up. I could not have married one who, in my mind, was so wicked. Therefore I have chosen another wife, Ortrud of Radbod." As he spoke, he brought his wife before the King and she made an obeisance.

"Now, my sovereign, I here charge the Lady Elsa with the crime, and ask thee to punish her as may be fitting. I also claim that as a fratricide she has forfeited her claim to all her lands; and as her nearest kinsman, I claim them." There ensued a painful silence, because the Lady Elsa of Brabant was a beautiful and gentle creature, and it was difficult for any one to believe such a monstrous story of her. Then arose a great outcry against the statement.

"Telramund, what hast thou said? This is a dreadful accusation."

"A fearful thing, indeed, Frederick," the good King protested.

"But if thou wilt consider, great King, there is cause for my belief. The maid, believing herself sole sovereign of Brabant, now that the boy was dead, became dreamy and strange, thinking upon some other with whom she might wish to share both her fortune and her power. Me she disdained, after her younger brother was gone."

The just King became very thoughtful for a time, then he said sadly:

"Summon the accused maid, and all of ye prepare to utter a just judgment. Heaven help me to judge her rightly!"

The Herald again sounded his trumpet.

"Dost thou determine to hold thy court of judgment here, O King?"

"Aye! I will not rest beneath my shield until the truth is sifted." Then all the Saxon nobles, who had instantly bared their swords, struck them against the earth, but those of Brabant laid theirs flat upon the ground.

Scene II

"Appear, ye royal maid, appear!" the Herald cried, and slowly from behind the crowd of nobles the beautiful Elsa appeared. She left the ladies of her court behind her, and stood forth quite alone.

"Behold!" all cried. "See how her face is clouded with sorrow!" She appeared so beautiful and innocent that no one could believe in her guilt.

The King asked her if she were willing to recognize him as her sovereign and to abide by his judgment, and she bowed her head.

"Dost thou know the crime with which thou art charged?" he asked. Elsa looked toward Ortrud and Telramund, and bowed her head. "Canst thou deny the accusation?" he demanded in a kind voice. She shook her head, sadly, for she was without defence.

"Then dost thou confess thy guilt?" he persisted, but her only answer was:

"Oh, my poor brother!" All those present looked sorrowfully at her. The King was much touched by her hopeless bearing.

"Come, Lady, confide freely in thy sovereign."

Then she stood alone and told what she knew had happened, as if she were speaking in a dream.

[Music]

Oft when hours were lonely, I unto Heav'n have prayed, One boon I asked for, only, to send the orphans aid; I prayed in tears and sorrow, with heavy heart and sore, Hoping a brighter morrow yet was for us in store.

Afar my words were wafted, I dreamt not help was nigh, But one on high vouchsafed it, while I in sleep did lie. I saw in splendour shining, a knight of glorious mien, On me his eyes inclining with tranquil gaze serene.

A horn of gold beside him, he leant upon his sword, Thus when I erst espied him 'mid clouds of light he soar'd; His words so low and tender brought life renewed to me. My guardian, my defender, thou shalt my champion be!

Thus she sang, while all present looked at her in amazement.

"She dreams!" they cried.

"Frederick of Telramund," the King cried, "it is hard to believe wrong of this maiden. Think, while yet there is time, of what ye say! Do not let any hate in thy heart make thee wrong a defenceless girl," he cautioned, while all the nobles protested that it seemed impossible she could have done so foul a thing as that of which she was accused.

"Her dreamy mood may deceive thee," Frederick said, "but it has never deceived me. Do ye not hear that she raves about a lover? I declare that I have spoken truly, and who will dare give me the lie?" Whereupon all the nobles of Brabant came forward to uphold their Lord.

"We stand by thee, Frederick of Brabant," they cried.

"I have always known thee to be honourable," the King replied, turning his eyes sadly upon Elsa, who still stood gazing ahead of her, as if half dreaming, or maybe seeing the vision she had described.

"Elsa of Brabant, I have no choice but to let Heaven decide for thee. I have no proof of thy guilt or innocence. This knight Frederick is known to me as an honourable man, and I cannot slight his word, so Heaven alone can help thee." The King drew his sword and struck it against the ground.

"Answer me, Frederick, wilt thou do battle here with whoever may appear to defend this Lady?"

"I will, right valiantly," he answered, his wife urging him on to all that he said.

"And thou, Elsa, wilt thou name thy champion, and leave thy honour in his hands?"

"Aye," she answered, simply.

"Then name the man," the King demanded.

"Now we shall hear the name of her lover," Frederick said hastily. "It will surely be he who was her accomplice."

"To whomsoever will defend me I will give all my lands and love," she answered firmly, waiting for some knight to stand out from the others, and declare for her cause and defence.

Each looked at the other, but no one spoke or moved. Then the King cried:

"Sound the trumpet! Call the warrior knight by thy bugle!" The Herald advanced with four trumpeters, whom he turned toward north, south, east, and west, and had them sound their trumps.

"Who will here do battle for Elsa of Brabant," he shouted. No one answered and the lonely, defenceless Elsa looked about pitifully, in great anxiety.

"Ah, ye see how poor a cause she hath!" Frederick called, pointing to her.

"Dear sovereign, once again I beg the right to call for a defender. My knight dwells afar off, and cannot arrive at once."

"Again sound thy trumpets," the King directed the Herald, and again they called to the four points of the compass. Still all was silent. Then Elsa sank upon her knees, while the ladies of her court came forward to crowd protectingly about her because they loved her very much. She prayed earnestly that some defender might come to her, and so affected were all present, except Frederick and his wife, that all joined in her prayer.

Then a strange thing happened; those standing nearest the water's edge saw a boat coming up the river, drawn by a lovely swan. In the boat stood a handsome knight, so beautiful and kind of face, and so glittering with silver armour, that they fairly held their breath in admiration.

"See!" they cried. "Some one—a marvellous man appears upon the river." All the others, excepting Elsa, who remained upon her knees, went back to the river's edge to look.

"Oh, he is a brave knight—he stands in the prow—his armour gleams like the sun—a swan draws him. He wears a helmet of light upon his brow. He is nearing the shore!—He has golden reins upon his swan." All but the King, Telramund, Ortrud, and Elsa were crowding about the river's bank, to see the glorious sight.

Frederick and Ortrud were frightened, and cast strange looks of fear at each other; the King rose from his seat to see; but Elsa, overcome with joy, remained where she was, not even looking around.

"It is a miracle wrought among us," the nobles cried, and all the ladies of the court fell upon their knees.

Scene III

The gorgeous knight drew to the shore. He wore his shield upon his back, a little silver horn at his side, and he glittered and gleamed in his beautiful armour in a way almost sufficient to blind one. The people fell back to let him land, and Frederick looked frightened, while the moment Ortrud saw the swan she was for some reason seized with a terrible fright. As everybody bowed their heads, having doffed their helmets, Elsa looked around and gave one great cry of joy at the sight of her champion, who was the knight of her dream.