otan ventures, with deep emotion, "he grew up,
by himself. My protection never helped him!" "Then do not protect
him to-day!" she pursues, hatefully righteous, "take away from
him the sword you gave him." "The sword?..." Her suggestion is
a very sword for Wotan's heart. "Yes, the sword, strong with a
charm, which you bestowed on your son." "Siegmund conquered it
for himself in his need." The deep strain here shudders out its
passion of repressed resentment and grief, which after this darkly
underlines Wotan's misery. "You created the need, as you created
the sword," she follows him up with clear-sighted accusation, almost
voluble. "For him you drove it into the tree-trunk. You promised
him the goodly weapon. Will you deny that it was your own stratagem
which guided him to the spot where he should find it?" The effect
of her words upon Wotan--to whom this mirror held up to him reveals
the weakness of his scheme to create a hero who should act for
himself, unprompted, against the gods, yet in the very manner the
case of the gods demanded--still increases his wife's assurance.
"What do you require?" asks Wotan at last, in gloom, heart-struck.
"That you should sever from the Waelsung!" "Let him go his way!" Wotan
acquiesces, smothered by this horrible, yet so clear, necessity.
"But you, protect him not, when the avenger calls him out to fight!"
"I--protect him not!" "Turn from him the Valkyrie!" "Let the Valkyrie
determine as she will!" "Nay, she solely carries out your wishes....
Forbid her the victory of Siegmund!" "I cannot deal him defeat!"
protests Wotan, in anguish, "he found my sword!" "Withdraw the
charm from the sword. Let it snap in the knave's hand. Let the
adversary behold him without defence!... Here comes your warlike
maid.... This day must her shield protect the sacred honour of your
wife. My honour demands the fall of the Waelsung. Have I Wotan's
oath?" The unhappy god casts himself upon a rocky seat, in helpless
loathing, and the terrible consent falls forced from his lips: "Take
the oath!" Fricka, with proud tread turning from him to remount
her chariot, stops to address Bruennhilde: "The Father of Armies is
waiting for you. Let him tell you how he has appointed the fortune
of battle."

Wotan sits with his head in his hands, like any humblest mortal
hard put to it. It has been brought home to him sharply enough
that the thing is not to be done, on the accomplishment of which he
had so fondly built. It is