rd, you were like a young warrior watching his shield." He
sprang to his feet and came toward her, placing the spear in her hand,
the helmet again on her head.

"Sing," he said, "Let me hear it again. Your voice is a marvel! The
timbre is silver and the tones are of bronze. Let me look at your
throat! Gott--but the roof of your mouth is arched like a dome and the
passage is as the nave of a cathedral, wide and deep!"

His hand grasped her shoulder, trembling: "Did Helmanoff know you had a
voice like that?" he cried, "Tell me, child, did he train you? The
part is most difficult to act and to sing. Tell me--or am I dreaming
still?"

Kaya fingered the spear dreamily: "My voice is bigger and fuller," she
said; "it came so all of a sudden, but he taught me the part, and he
told me, some day, if I were not a Countess I could become the
Bruennhilde." Her form stiffened suddenly and she threw off his grasp,
springing forward and crouching:

"You are Wotan and you are angry," she whispered, "The Bruennhilde is
your child and she has sinned. You have threatened her, and now she is
pleading: 'Wotan--Father!'" Her voice rose, and her form shook as
though with sobs. She crept closer, still crouching, and lay at his
feet, and her voice was like something crying and wrestling.

"Hier bin ich Vater: Gebiete die Strafe . . .
Du verstoesest mich? Versteh' ich den Sinn?
Nimmst du mir alles was einst du gabst?"

Her voice sobbed, dying away into a tone pure, soft, heart-breaking,
like a breath; yet it penetrated and filled the stage, the wings, and
came echoing back.

"Hier bin ich Vater; Gebiete die Strafe . . .
Du verstoesest mich?"

For a moment she lay as if exhausted; then she covered her head with
her hands as if fearing and trembling: "Now curse me," she whispered,
"Curse me! I hear the flames now beginning to crackle!"

The Kapellmeister put out his hand and took hers, and lifted her: "If
the House were full," he said, "and you acted like that, they would go
stark mad; they would shower bouquets at your feet and carry you on
their shoulders. The Lehmann was the great Bruennhilde, but you are
greater, Kaya. Your voice has the gift of tears. When you let it out,
one is thrilled and shaken, and there is no end to the glory and power;
it encircles one as with a wreath of tones. But when you lower it
suddenly and breathe out the sound--child--little one, what have you
suffered to sing like that