nermost of him breaks the confession that he
rejoices in his doom, and now himself exults in passing away with all
his ordinances and alliances, with the spear-sceptre which he has only
wielded on condition of slaying his dearest children with it, with the
kingdom, the power and the glory which will never again boast themselves
as "world without end." And so he dismisses Erda to her sleep in the
heart of the earth as the forest bird draws near, piloting the slain
son's son to his goal.

Now it is an excellent thing to triumph in the victory of the new order
and the passing away of the old; but if you happen to be part of the
old order yourself, you must none the less fight for your life. It seems
hardly possible that the British army at the battle of Waterloo did not
include at least one Englishman intelligent enough to hope, for the
sake of his country and humanity, that Napoleon might defeat the allied
sovereigns; but such an Englishman would kill a French cuirassier rather
than be killed by him just as energetically as the silliest soldier,
ever encouraged by people who ought to know better, to call his
ignorance, ferocity and folly, patriotism and duty. Outworn life may
have become mere error; but it still claims the right to die a natural
death, and will raise its hand against the millennium itself in
self-defence if it tries to come by the short cut of murder. Wotan finds
this out when he comes face to face with Siegfried, who is brought to a
standstill at the foot of the mountain by the disappearance of the bird.
Meeting the Wanderer there, he asks him the way to the mountain where
a woman sleeps surrounded by fire. The Wanderer questions him, and
extracts his story from him, breaking into fatherly delight when
Siegfried, describing the mending of the sword, remarks that all he knew
about the business was that the broken bits of Nothung would be of no
use to him unless he made a new sword out of them right over again from
the beginning. But the Wanderer's interest is by no means reciprocated
by Siegfried. His majesty and elderly dignity are thrown away on the
young anarchist, who, unwilling to waste time talking, bluntly bids
him either show him the way to the mountain, or else "shut his muzzle."
Wotan is a little hurt. "Patience, my lad," he says: "if you were an old
man I should treat you with respect." "That would be a precious notion,"
says Siegfried. "All my life long I was bothered and hampered by an
old ma