KRONBORG
she always sang so nobly, and the entrance of the one-eyed stranger:—
"Mir allein
Weckte das Auge."
Mrs. Harsanyi glanced at her husband, wondering whether the singer on the stage could not feel his commanding glance. On came the crescendo:—
"Was je ich verlor,
Was je ich beweint
Wär' mir gewonnen."
(All that I have lost,
All that I have mourned,
Would I then have won.)
Harsanyi touched his wife's arm softly.
Seated in the moonlight, the Volsung pair began their loving inspection of each other's beauties, and the music born of murmuring sound passed into her face, as the old poet said,—and into her body as well. Into one lovely attitude after another the music swept her, love impelled her. And the voice gave out all that was best in it. Like the spring, indeed, it blossomed into memories and prophecies, it recounted and it foretold, as she sang the story of her friendless life, and of how the thing which was truly herself, "bright as the day, rose to the surface" when in the hostile world she for the first time beheld her Friend. Fervently she rose into the hardier feeling of action and daring, the pride in hero-strength and hero-blood, until in a splendid burst, tall and shining like a Victory, she christened him:—
"Siegmund—
So nenn ich dich!"
Her impatience for the sword swelled with her anticipation of his act, and throwing her arms above her head, she fairly tore a sword out of the empty air for him, before Nothung had left the tree. In höchster Trunkenheit, in-
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