the land was covered with black bowlders
and broken by yawning chasms. And no living thing was seen there, not
even an insect, nor a blade of grass; and the silence of the grave was
over all. And the earth was dry and parched, and the sun hung above them
like a painted shield in a blue-black sky, and there was neither shade
nor water anywhere. But Siegfried rode onwards in the way which Regin
pointed out, and faltered not, although he grew faint with thirst and
with the overpowering heat. Towards the evening of the next day they
came to a dark mountain-wall which stretched far out on either hand, and
rose high above them, so steep that it seemed to close up the way, and
to forbid them going farther.

"This is the wall!" cried Regin. "Beyond this mountain is the Glittering
Heath, and the goal of all my hopes."

And the little old man ran forwards, and scaled the rough side of the
mountain, and reached its summit, while Siegfried and Greyfell were yet
toiling among the rocks at its foot. Slowly and painfully they climbed
the steep ascent, sometimes following a narrow path which wound along
the edge of a precipice, sometimes leaping, from rock to rock, or over
some deep gorge, and sometimes picking their way among the crags and
cliffs. The sun at last went down, and one by one the stars came out;
and the moon was rising, round and red, when Siegfried stood by Regin's
side, and gazed from the mountain-top down upon the Glittering Heath
which lay beyond. And a strange, weird scene it was that met his sight.
At the foot of the mountain was a river, white and cold and still; and
beyond it was a smooth and barren plain, lying silent and lonely in
the pale moonlight. But in the distance was seen a circle of flickering
flames, ever changing,--now growing brighter, now fading away, and now
shining with a dull, cold light, like the glimmer of the glow-worm or
the fox-fire. And as Siegfried gazed upon the scene, he saw the dim
outline of some hideous monster moving hither and thither, and seeming
all the more terrible in the uncertain light.

"It is he!" whispered Regin, and his lips were ashy pale, and his knees
trembled beneath him. "It is Fafnir, and he wears the Helmet of Terror!
Shall we not go back to the smithy by the great forest, and to the life
of ease and safety that may be ours there? Or will you rather dare to go
forwards, and meet the Terror in its abode?"

"None but cowards give up an undertaking once begun," answ