ike the giants' tread. As
a further exhibition of his power, after full measure of flattery
in Loge's pretended fright, he at the prompting of the same changes
himself into a toad, which has but time for a hop or two, before
Wotan places his calm foot upon it. Loge snatches the Tarnhelm
off its head and Alberich is seen in his own person writhing under
Wotan. Loge binds him fast, and the gods, with their struggling
prey between them, hurry off through the pass by which they came.

Then reoccurs, but reversed, the transformation between Nibelheim
and the upper world. The region of the stithies is passed, the little
hammers are heard. At last Wotan and Loge with Alberich reappear
through the sulphur-cleft.

"Look, beloved," says Loge to the unhappy captive, "there lies
the world which you think of conquering for your own. Tell me now,
what little corner in it do you intend as a kennel for me?" And he
dances around him, snapping his fingers to the prettiest, heartlessly
merry fire-music.

Alberich replies with raving insult. Wotan's cool voice reminds
him of the vanity of this and calls him to the consideration of
his ransom. When Alberich, after a time, grumblingly inquires what
they will have, he says, largely and frankly, "The treasure, your
shining gold."

If he can only retain the ring, reflects Alberich, the loss of
the treasure may be quickly repaired. At his request they free
his right hand; he touches the ring with his lips and murmurs the
spell by which after a moment the swarm of little smoke-grimed
Nibelungs arrives groaning and straining under the weight of the
Hort; again they pile it in a heap, and at Alberich's command scurry
home.

"Now I have paid, now let me go," says the humbled Nibelung-lord,
"and that helmet-like ornament which Loge is holding, have the
kindness to give it me back." But Loge flings the Tarnhelm on the
heap as part of the ransom. Hard to bear is this, but Mime can
after all forge another. "Now you have gotten everything; now,
you cruel ones, loose the thongs." But Wotan remarks, "You have a
gold ring upon your finger; that, I think, belongs with the rest."
At this, a madness of terror seizes Alberich. "The ring?..." "You
must leave it for ransom." "My life--but not the ring!" With that
bitter coldness of the aristocrat which in time brings about
revolutions, Wotan replies, "It is the ring I ask for--with your
life do what you please!" The dull Nibelung pleads still after
that,