zed at the sky and the sunlight, the rocks and the trees, her
lips parted suddenly; she raised her arms, half in bewilderment half in
ecstasy, stretching them upwards, and began to sing.

It was like a lark, disturbed by the reapers, rising from its nest in
the meadows. The notes came softly, dreamily from her throat; and then
as she rose slowly to her feet, clasping the spear, it was as if a
floodgate had been opened and the sounds poured out, full, glorious,
irresistible, ringing through the darkness and the silence of the
House. Drawn to her height she stood, the helmet tipped back on her
red-blonde hair, the white robes trailing about her, the spear
uplifted. As she sang her throat swelled, her voice came like a
torrent: above the wood-winds and strings, the brass and the basses,
the single voice soared higher and higher, deeper and richer, full of
passion and pure.

"Heil dir, Sonne!
Heil dir, Licht!
Heil dir, leuchtender Tag!"

The "Heil" was like a clarion note ringing through space; like the
sound of an echo through mountain passes. The audience listened and
gazed as under a spell; the orchestra played as it had never played
before; the baton waved. Siegfried sang to her and she responded;
their voices rising and mingling together, every note a glory.

On the stage, still dim with the smoke and the flames, the light grew
stronger, illuminating the helmet of Bruennhilde, the tip of her spear,
falling full on her face and her eyes. She drew nearer the
foot-lights, still singing, her sight half blinded, gazing
unconsciously into the pit of the House and the darkness. She was
clasping her spear, and her voice rose high above the violins.

Her eyes sought the baton, the face of her Master; and then as she
stood, she trembled suddenly. Her voice died away in her throat; her
steps faltered.

The Conductor leaned over the desk, the baton moving mechanically as if
the fingers were stiffened. The orchestra played on. A shudder ran
over the House.

What had happened? Bruennhilde had stopped singing. Siegfried was
trying in vain to cover her part, singing his own. The Walkuere stood
motionless, transfixed, her eyes riveted on the Conductor. A slight
murmur ran over the House: "Was she ill--struck with sudden paralysis?
Or was it the stage-terror, pitiless, irresistible, benumbing her
faculties?"

She stood there; and then she stretched out her hands, trembling; her
voice came back.

"Vela