the helmet glittering on her red-blonde hair. Her eyes were
proud and scornful.

"Am I not--Bruennhilde?"

"Yes--yes!" cried Ritter, drawing back in a dazed way: "You are
magnificent, Madame. If you had acted like that tonight, you would
have had the House at your feet."

The singer took a step forward. "It is not I," she cried, "It is
Bruennhilde herself! Come, let her sing to you! The scene is still
there on the stage, the rocks and the fir-tree--and Bruennhilde's couch.
The fire motive seethes in my brain, and the flames are springing.
Come--and waken me!"

She grasped his sleeve with her fingers, and drew him: "You are not the
Kapellmeister!" she cried, "You are Siegfried, and you must sing the
part in falsetto. Come!"

Ritter gave a quick glance about. The stage hands were gone, and the
singers. The stage was in semi-darkness, half lighted, and the scene
was unchanged. He could see it from the top of the balustrade. There
was no one in the House behind, or in front, and the foot-lights were
out; only the porter watched below, half asleep and waiting. He was
alone with a mad woman; Bruennhilde gone crazy and frantic with grief
because she was old and her voice was gone. She was dragging at his
hand, and pulling him towards the stair-case. He followed her dumbly.

"Come--come!" she panted, "You think the Schultz has gone mad! No--no!
It is only her youth come back, and her voice is leaping in her throat.
She must sing--must sing! There is the couch. See, I fling myself on
it! I am covered with the shield, and the spear lies beside me. You
have wakened me, Siegfried, with your kiss; and now I raise myself
slowly. I am dazed--I stare blindly about! Hark, how the fire is
leaping and crackling!"

The singer was seated upright now on the couch, and Ritter was standing
helpless beside her. As she acted, the blood ran cold in his veins.
It was true what she had said. She was no longer the Schultz: she was
Bruennhilde herself, the goddess, and the kiss of Siegfried was on her
lips.

She was singing now; she had sprung to her feet with the spear in her
hand, and the music poured from her throat. It was not the voice of
Schultz; it was richer and fuller, and the tones were deep and strong,
and pure and high; and it rang out and filled the empty stage like a
clarion trumpet, silver-toned. She held her hands high above her head,
waving the spear; coming nearer to him and nearer.

"O Siegfrie