A bird-note is heard, light and sharp, approaching. A bird flutters
into sight and Siegfried, following it, appears upon the scene. The
bird, as if at the recognition of danger,--the ravens of Wotan are
hovering near--in all haste flies quite away. Siegfried resolves to
go on alone. He is stopped by the Wanderer's voice: "Whither, boy,
does your way lead you?" Here is some one, thinks Siegfried, who may
show him the way. "I seek a rock," he replies; "it is surrounded
by fire; there sleeps a woman whom I wish to wake." "Who bade you
seek the rock? Who taught you to wish for the woman?" "A little
woodland bird told me about it in his singing; he gave me good
tidings." "A little bird gossips of many things, but no one can
understand him. How did you derive the meaning of his song?" "That
was the effect of the blood of a wild dragon,..." and so forth.
Wotan continues to ply the youth with questions, just as a kind
old grandfather of humankind might lead on a child to talk, for
the simple sake of hearing what he will say, for delight in his
ingenuousness. The utmost tenderness for this joyous Walsung speaks
in the tones of the greybeard. The final object of his questioning
is to lead the youth to some acknowledgment of himself as a factor
in his fortunes. Without discarding his incognito, he longs to
hear on the grandson's lips some name which stands for himself,
some reference to him. So, from the question, "Who prompted you to
attack the strong Worm?" he passes to the question: "Who shaped the
sword, so sharp and hard, that the strongest enemy should succumb
to its stroke?" and when Siegfried replies that he did this himself,
insists further: "But who shaped the strong pieces, out of which
you forged the sword?" The answer to this is, "Waelse!" It can be
nothing else. Siegfried, however, replies: "What do I know? All
I know is that the pieces could be of no use to me until I forged
the sword over again for myself." Wotan breaks out laughing: "I
agree with you!" Siegfried suspecting that he has been quizzed,
loses his patience, becomes curt and rough. "What are you laughing
at me? Old questioner, you had better stop. Do not keep me chattering
here! If you can direct me on my way, speak. If you cannot, hold
your mouth!" Deplorable are the manners learned in Mime's cave.
"Patience, you boy!" Wanderer mildly checks him; "if I seem old
to you, you should offer me reverence!" "That," jeers Siegfried,
"is a fine idea! All my l