n:
He had lost his arms in the attempt to defend a damsel against
her own immediate family, bent upon marrying her against her
inclination. He had slain her brothers, whereupon the maiden, as
another perhaps would have foreseen, had cast herself upon their
bodies, sorrow annulling her resentment. He had stood over her,
shielding her from the vengeance of her kindred pressing around. His
armour had been shattered; the girl lay dead on her dead brothers.
Wounded and weaponless, he had been chased by the infuriate horde.
"Now you know, inquiring woman," he closes his narrative, "why
I do not bear the name of Friedmund!" (_Frieden:_ peace.) With
this simple sally, whose bitterness is not enough to crumple the
serene forehead, he rises and walks to the hearth, striding to
the noble march-measure we know as the motif of the heroism of
the Waelsungen,--proud in its first bars, with Siegmund's pride,
tender in the last, with Sieglinde's tenderness, loftily mournful
throughout.

"I know a wild race of men," now speaks Hunding, "to whom nothing
is holy of all that is revered by others; hated are they of all
men--and of me!" He then reveals how he himself had that day been
called out for vengeance with his clan against this officious champion
of damsels. He had arrived too late for action, and returning home,
behold, discovers the fugitive miscreant in his own house! As he
granted the stranger hospitality for the night, his house shall
shelter him for that length of time; but "with strong weapons arm
yourself to-morrow," he grimly warns him; "it is the day I choose
for combat; you shall pay me a price for the dead!" When Sieglinde
in alarm places herself between the two men, Hunding orders her
roughly: "Out of the room! Loiter not here! Prepare my night-drink
and wait for me to go to rest!" Siegmund, smothering his anger,
stands in contemptuous composure beside the hearth; his eyes frankly
follow every movement of the woman as she prepares Hunding's drink.
On her way out of the room, she pauses at the threshold of the
inner chamber, and seeking Siegmund's eyes with her own, tries
by a long significant glance to direct his glance to a spot in
the ash-tree. The sword-motif, distinct and sharp, accompanies her
look. Hunding, becoming aware of her lingering, with a peremptory
gesture orders her again to be gone; and gathering up his own armour,
with a warning to the Woelfing that on the morrow he will strike
home,--let him have a c