ody, which I expend day by day in living. Nothing have
I but a sword, forged by myself.... This I pledge with myself to
our alliance." Hagen, overhearing, ventures; "Yet report calls
you possessor of the Nibelungen-Hort...." And Siegfried; "I had
almost forgotten the treasure, so do I prize its idle wealth! I
left it lying in a cave where it once was guarded by a dragon." (The
reason is clear why the curse must drop away crippled, powerless
to blight this free nature, unenfeebled by covetousness as by fear!)
"And you brought away no part of it?" "This metal-work, unaware of
its use." Hagen recognises the Tarnhelm and explains its virtues.
"And you took from the Hort nothing further?" "A ring." "You have
it no doubt in safe keeping?" "It is in the keeping of a gracious
woman," Siegfried replies dreamily.

Bashful, blushing, tremulous, as different as is well possible from
Bruennhilde, Gutrune approaches, holding a filled drinking-horn.
"Welcome, guest, in Gibich's house! His daughter offers you drink!"

Siegfried holds the cup before him a moment without drinking, his
thoughts flying afar. The words come back to him spoken to Bruennhilde
at parting. An infinite tenderness invades him. "Though I should
forget all you ever taught me," he murmurs, "one teaching I shall
still hold fast. My first draught, to faithful love, Bruennhilde,
I drink to you!" With which secret toast to the absent beloved
he sets the horn to his lips and drains it--to the motif of Evil
Enchantment, the motif of the Cup of Forgetfulness, closely resembling
the Tarnhelm-motif, but sweeter,--cruel as a treacherous caress.
This whole passage, surpassingly exquisite to the ear, is painful
to the heart as hardly another in the opera, fertile as this is
in tragic moments. It marks the end of so much happiness.

When Siegfried's eyes, as he returns the cup to Gibich's daughter,
rest upon her, it is, as Hagen had foretold, as if he had never
before beheld a woman. The inflammable heart which suffocated him
of old at sight of Bruennhilde asleep, now makes his voice falter
with instantaneous passion as he exclaims: "You, whose beauty dazzles
like lightning, wherefore do you drop your eyes before me?" And
when shyly she looks up: "Ha, fairest woman, hide your glance!
Its beam scorches the heart within my breast--Gunther, what is
your sister's name?... Gutrune!... Are they _good runes_ which I
read in her eye?..." Impetuously he seizes her hand; "I offered
my