gazes into her pure eyes and for the
first time becomes aware that Love exists.

The husband, Hunding, the wild huntsman, takes leave of him at the end
of the rustic supper: "Your father was the Wolf, and I am of the race of
Hunters. Until the break of day, my house protects you; you are my
guest; but as soon as the sun rises in the heavens you become my enemy,
and we will fight.... Woman, prepare the night's drink; and let us be
off to bed."

And the exile sits alone beside the fireplace, thinking of his immense
loneliness. No home, no family, not even the magic sword promised him by
his father the Wolf. And at daybreak, out of the hut that shelters him
the enemy will come to slay him. The thought of the woman who allayed
his thirst, the sparkle of those pure eyes wrapping him in a gaze of
pity and love, is the one thing that sustains him.... She comes to him
when her wild consort has fallen asleep. She shows him the hilt of the
sword plunged into the oak by the god Wotan; nobody can pull it out: it
will obey only the hand of him to whom it has been destined by the god.

As she speaks the wandering savage gazes at her in ecstasy, as if she
were a white vision revealing to him the existence of something more
than might and struggle in the world. It is the voice of Love. Slowly he
draws near; embraces her; clasps her to his heart, while the door is
pushed open by the breeze and the green forest appears, odorous in the
moonlight--nocturnal Springtime, radiant and glorious, wrapped in a
mantle of music and perfume.

Siglinda shudders. "Who has come in?" No one--and yet, a Stranger has
entered the hovel, opening the door with an invisible hand. And Sigmund,
at the inspiration of Love, divines the identity of the visitant. "It is
Springtime laughing in the air about your tresses. The storms are gone;
gone is the dark solitude. The radiant month of May, a young warrior in
an armor of flowers, has come to give chase to bleak Winter, and in all
this festival of rejoicing Nature, seeks his sweetheart: Youth. This
night, which has brought you to me, is the unending night of Spring and
Youth."

And, Leonora was thrilled as she heard in her memory the murmur of the
orchestra accompanying the song of tenderness inspired by Spring; the
rustle of the forest branches benumbed by the winter, now swaying with
the new sap that had flowed into them like a torrent of vitality; and
out on the brightly lighted _plazoleta_ she could almo