CHAPTER III

THE YEARS OF THE WANDERINGS, AS REFLECTED IN THE FIRST PERIOD OF BLOOM OF GERMAN LITERATURE (1100-1300)

The literary remnants of the pre-Carlovingian era are too scanty to permit us to form from them a perfect picture of Teutonic woman during the centuries of migrations. We are, however, able fairly to reconstruct the record by the aid of the rich treasures transmitted to us from a period five or six centuries later, a time epochal in the stormy youth of the German peoples. Though the original songs were partly destroyed through the antagonism of the Church and her efforts to root out the pagan memories and traditions, and, though these causes, to a large extent, made futile the strenuous efforts of Charlemagne to collect and preserve the ancient lays and sagas, the people continued to be influenced by their memories. The spirit of the "_Legend from Ancient Times_," of which Heine writes in his beautiful poem, _Lorelei_, never died out in the soul of the race. The spirit of expansion, of enlargement of horizon, fostered by the crusades and by the broad policy of the great Hohenstaufen dynasty brought about an extensive knowledge of the poetic, romantic, and historic materials and forms among the older French and Italian literatures. The old heroes of the German legend and history awakened from the long slumber of vague recollection and lived again in their influence upon the ideals of the people. The origin of the German heroic epic is thus closely connected with the most decisive period of the political birth of the nation. The heroic epic in its entirety, therefore, flows from, and is reflected in, the great revolution of power and in the changes of habitation which, for the first time, awakened the historical self-consciousness of the German war nobility and made possible a new development in the national literature. The hour of birth of the German heroic epic is the Migration period. In the heroic epic the story is clothed in a romantic garment. The epic poets, looking backward from their own stirring times as far as the formation period, symbolize the progress of history in the time when it may be said that ancient Europe was broken to pieces, and the Germans in a new formation and in a new soil came uninjured and even strengthened from the general devastation.

The type of heroes and heroines formed in the fifth and sixth centuries, and the heroes grown and developed from those ancient, yet largely mythological ideas and ideals were adapted to the new type of chivalrous manhood of the eleventh and twelfth centuries by the poets and singers of the circles of the princes and nobles whose high culture promoted the first classical period of bloom. The heroic saga is then the crystallization of the treasure of traditions formed in the heroic period of the race.

The saga material is divisible into the group or tribal cycles, and every cycle revolves around a galaxy of great, good, heroic, or evil women. This saga literature, in fact, furnishes us with a perfect portrait gallery of the German women of the two most important and formative periods of their race. We have mentioned in the previous chapter a few of the Hunnish cycle around Attila (_Etzel_). Of these Ildico and Hildegund are preeminent. We have alluded to the historical women of the Ostrogoth cycle those associated with the great Theodoric or, as called in the saga, Dietrich von Bern (_Verona_). Other cycles there are: the Norse, embracing Beowulf, King of the Jutes, and the Scandinavian heroes Wittich and Wieland, belongs to our theme but incidentally; the Langobard cycle, singing the Langobard heroes King Rother, Ortnit, Hugdietrich, and Wolfdietrich, and their adventures on the Mediterranean Sea and in a legendary Byzantine Empire, with a type of Oriental-Greek or Byzantine women, lies a little aside from our present consideration of German women. We can well confine ourselves to the _Nibelungen Saga_ and _Gudrun_, the German _Iliad_ and _Odyssey_, for these two heroic sagas of the German nation are the true exponents of all the characteristics of German women and men. The heroic epic in its germ is historical, but its growth freed it from its fetters of fact and decked it with ornaments from the domain of imagination. Historical and mythical elements are, then, strangely blended in these sagas. They develop exotically, scarce one that does not grow outside its original sphere, assimilate foreign unhistorical matter, blur all chronology, and anachronistically poetize the dim recollections of a historical but long-forgotten underground. The resultant of the convolutions and accretions is a complex epic cycle of sagas originating at different times, but always deeply rooted in the Migration period, wherein lay all the origins of Germanic historical existence.

The _Nibelungenlied_ is the crystallization of the Burgundian Low Rhenish Hunnish cycle of Sagas. No more complete psychological record in poetic form of all the emotions, love and hate, vice and virtue, vanity and modesty, chastity and passion, piety and wickedness, womanly gentleness and virulence, is imaginable. All the phases of human existence are put before us in the lives of the Burgundian royal brothers Gunther, Gernot, Giselher; their mother Ute; and their sister Kriemhilde, whose character, as outlined, is the grandest and the most complex woman's character in the literature of the world. Kriemhilde, as the wife of the Low Rhenish hero Siegfried, and Brunhild, in the Norse version of the Saga, a former Valkyrie, humanized only to make it possible for her to be the wife of Gunther and to bear a deep love for Siegfried, are the opposite poles of womanhood.

It is, however, very difficult to obtain through the epics a correct estimate of the status of woman at a definite period. This difficulty is due not only to the poetic and fictitious characterization of the womanly types, but especially to the constant blending of ancient Germanic elements and twelfth century chivalry, knighthood, and romantic love (_Minne_), from which results an almost inextricable web of mythical and historical and purely romantic threads.

Siegfried wins Kriemhilde by a long wooing in the truly romantic fashion of the period of _Minne song_, but later inflicts upon her, in the truly old Germanic fashion, a severe physical chastisement for her quarrelsome temper. We find in the story traces of the primeval Germanic beliefs of the power of divination and prophecy. Kriemhilde has a momentous dream; she sees a beautiful falcon that she had reared with care seized and overpowered by two eagles. Her mother, Ute, interprets the dream correctly as foreshadowing the fate of her future husband:

"The falcon, whom thou cherished, he was a noble man, May God in safety keep him, for no one other can."

In the morning before the final catastrophe overtook Siegfried, Kriemhilde related to him with a sorrowful heart another dream:

"I dreamed last night of trouble, and how that two wild boar Chased you thro' the thicket, then were the flowers red. That I must weep so sorely, in sooth! I have full need."

The magic arts and the cutting of _runes_ by women are no longer mentioned in the greatest epic of the Middle High German period, while they are yet in full sway in the Norse version of _Sigurd and Brunhild_, or, as she is there called, _Sigrdrifa_. The gift of healing, however, is attributed to women in both versions.

As we have seen in ancient Germanic law, woman is under the guardianship, or Mundium (hand), of her nearest male relatives. So she is at the period of the Nibelungenlied. Of Kriemhilde it is said:

"Her guardians were three kings, rich and of noble race... The maiden was their sister; the princes had her in ward."

Noble women resided usually in the inner secluded rooms, called _hemenate_. Siegfried did not see Kriemhilde at the Burgundian court for a whole year. Her favorite occupation in her seclusion was to embroider gold and jewels on silk, fashioning splendid garments for the bridal expeditions and courtly travels of the heroes. Rarely, and only on festal occasions, women appeared to receive distinguished guests. Then they are surrounded by their attendant warriors, who as a symbol of ready protection carry swords in their hands. Any offence to a noblewoman is taken up by her entire following and is expiated in bloody fashion. Marriage by capture no longer occurs, yet traces of it can be found everywhere in the later bridal expeditions of Gunther and the Hegelings. On the battlefield, Siegfried pays no gold for his bride, it is true, but he has to earn her in a hard struggle against the enemies of her three brothers.

The lot of woman is suffering and sorrow and care, as evidenced from such verses as:

"Whatever sufferings fall to the lot of the men, All those are wept over by the women."

This is the tenor of all the epic songs. The _Nibelungenlied_ has devoted an epilogue, _The Lamentation_, to the expression of those sentiments. There are constant allusions to woman's woes: here, the death of a hero is "lamented by many a woman;" there, "heavy heartache harasses the women;" "all the worthy women weep over him."

We may, after this brief introduction, consider the great characters of the lay. A peculiar position in the Germanic heroic epic is occupied by Helche, King Attila's first consort. Although a pagan, the conception left to us of the wife of the dread Hunnish king is of a woman who has become almost entirely Germanized. Because of her traits of mildness, kindness, and purity, she appears as the ideal of a true German queen, just as Attila himself, with his Germanized name (attila, little father, from Gothic _atta_, father), appears in many lays as a good, liberal, kind-hearted king. Helche is especially motherly toward the numerous noblewomen who stay at the Hunnish court as hostages; she is a friend of the conquered and the helper of the miserable and the exiled. Dietrich von Bern, in his exile from home and throne, is under her protection. She obtained for him from Etzel money and men for the reconquest of Bern; and when the enterprise failed, she intervened for him with the irate Hunnish king, and even gave him her sister's daughter in marriage. When the king complained of the obnoxious foreign fugitives, she convinced him that the reception of a hero like Dietrich could only be of advantage to his realm and an honor to himself. At the death of Helche there is universal mourning throughout the land; for, says the chronicler, a true mother of the innocent virgins and of the entire people has departed.

In the foreground of all the epics of the German cycles stand the two greatest characters of ancient womanhood, Kriemhilde and Brunhild.

At Worms on the Rhine in the land of the Burgundians, the three royal brothers Gunther, Gernot, and Giselher guard a glorious treasure, Princess Kriemhilde. Many kings and heroes try to win her hand, but she is indifferent to the love of men. The most glorious hero of the age, Siegfried, hears the fame of Kriemhilde's beauty and proceeds with a numerous and splendid retinue from his royal father's castle at Xanten up the Rhine to Worms to win Kriemhilde. After a six days' sail, Siegfried and his escort reach their destination, and without disclosing their identity they ride to court. Only Hagen of Tronje is able to give information to the Burgundians regarding the strange heroes. He relates how Siegfried, in spite of his youth, has already accomplished great exploits, how he slew the dragon and became invulnerable by bathing in the blood of the monster, how he defeated the Nibelungs and seized their immense treasure. Hagen exhorts Gunther to receive the youthful hero with kindness and honor in order that he may not "earn the hatred of the bold prince."

Hagen's advice is followed and Siegfried is received by the Burgundians with great honor. But before he is permitted even to look upon the beautiful Kriemhilde, he is invited to aid the Burgundians in reducing to subjection the rebellious kings Ludeger of Saxony and Ludegast of Denmark. Upon his triumphal return from the war his eyes are gladdened by the sight of the royal maid at the festive celebration of the victory. The princess attended by a hundred sword-bearing chamberlains and a hundred richly adorned gentlewomen, steps forth from her _hemenate_, or as says the lay:

"Then came the lovely one, as does the rosy morn Through sombre clouds advancing... As the bright Queen of heaven steps forth before each star Above the clouds high soaring, in shine so pure and clear, So shone the beauteous maiden o'er other ladies nigh."

The very first glance exchanged between the princess and the prince betrays their mutual love. Siegfried is more than ever resolved to win the beauteous maiden for his wife.

But the time of trial is not yet over for him. King Gunther has set his heart upon the war maid Brunhild, Queen of the Isenstein, and he is determined to win her as his wife. Siegfried's presence seems to offer a favorable opportunity to press his suit; he therefore agrees that if the hero from the Netherlands will help him to obtain the hand of Brunhild, he may marry Kriemhilde. With a heavy heart for well he knows Brunhild Siegfried consents. Accompanied by but a few warriors, Gunther and Siegfried sail down the Rhine, and after a twelve days' journey they land on Isenstein. In sight of the royal castle, surmounted by eighty-six towers rising in gloomy magnificence, Siegfried, in order to pass for a vassal, holds the stirrup of Gunther. Brunhild receives the dragon slayer, whose fame and glory are well known to her, with the words:

"'Welcome you are, Sir Siegfried, here to this my land. What means your journey hither, now let me understand?' Quoth Siegfried: 'Lady Brunhild, great thanks to you I owe, That you, most gentle princess, should deign to greet me so Before this noble hero who stands beside me here; For he is my master... He is by name Gunther, a mighty King and dread; If he your love can conquer, his fondest wish is sped.'"

Brunhild proclaims the conditions upon which she may be won. The hero who wishes to win her to wife must conquer her in three games: spear throwing, stone throwing, and leaping. If he fails in one of the three tests he must lose his head. Gunther declares himself ready for the trial though he feels that his strength is not equal to the superhuman power of Brunhild. Siegfried comes to his friend's assistance, and clad in his Tarn-cap which he had won from the Nibelung treasure, and which makes him invisible, he undertakes the task while Gunther merely executes the gesture of the action. Brunhild is defeated and with forebodings of evil follows the Burgundian king to Worms where a joyful double marriage is celebrated. Then Siegfried takes his bride to Xanten, his capital, where he passes ten years of peace and happiness. But the Norns, the Fates, have decreed that his joy shall not endure. King Gunther invites his friend and his sister to a great festival at Worms at the time of the summer solstice. On the eleventh day before Vespers, during the walk to church, a fatal quarrel breaks out between the queens. The quarrel is precipitated by a question of precedence. Brunhild, consumed by jealousy of Siegfried's heroic fame and Kriemhilde's happiness, insultingly taunts the latter that her consort is after all but a vassal of Gunther, an accusation which Kriemhilde violently rejects. The two queens part with vehement words. Kriemhilde threatens:

'"Since thou hast my Siegfried claimed as thy subject now, So shall this very day the knights of both kings see, Whether, before the Queen, the church I enter may.'"

Arrived at the same moment at the entrance to the church, Brunhild calls out to her sister-in-law:

"'Before wife of a monarch, a subject shall not go.'"

Kriemhilde, forgetting herself and all about her, breaks out in terrible passion:

"'Couldst thou have kept silent, 't would have been for thy good. Thou hast thyself dishonored thine own body fair; How could a concubine as a king's wife appear?' 'Whom wouldst thou a concubine?' speaks the haughty Queen. 'That will I thee,' quoth Kriemhild; 'thy body fair, I ween, Was at first embraced by Siegfried, my dear man; 'Sooth was it not my brother who thy maidenhood won.'"

In the agony of shame, Brunhild sank with tears on the threshold. Kriemhilde passes through the door of the church with her attendants, but

"For this must soon perish many knights, brave and good."

The insulted queen swears vengeance; Siegfried's blood alone can wash away her shame. Here begins the work of fierce, grim Hagen, one of the most sombre characters in German legend. Brunhild wins for the execution of her revenge this knight, with his fearful record of crime and passion, though with, on the other hand, his tragic greatness and his unfaltering devotion to his king and master, to whom he is joined by the ties of absolute loyalty. As justified by his oath of vassalage he vows to slay the man who has insulted his sovereign. Gunther reluctantly consents to the murder of the man to whom he is so deeply indebted; Giselher, who decidedly rejects the murderous project, is outvoted.

A treacherous plan is concocted, and to make the perfidy still more flagrant Kriemhilde's innocent cooperation is mendaciously engaged. As Siegfried, after his bath in the blood of the dragon whom he had slain, is invulnerable except at one point between the shoulder-blades where a fallen linden leaf had prevented the skin from becoming "horny," Kriemhilde is persuaded by Hagen to mark the spot with red silk that he may protect him from harm. A hunt is chosen as the occasion for Siegfried's murder. While Siegfried stoops to a fountain to drink the limpid water, wine having intentionally been kept away from the hunting party, he is pierced by Gunther's vassal through the silken mark indicated by his innocent, loving wife. He sinks to the ground dying, rallies once more to face his murderer, but his strength leaves him, and dying he commends Kriemhilde to Gunther's care:

"'Would you ever, Gunther, on this world again To any one show kindness, let it well appear, In truth and in favor, to my wife so dear. Let it at least speak for her that she your sister is: By every princely virtue, pledge your troth in this.'"

The murderer causes Siegfried's corpse to be laid before the door of his sleeping queen. When leaving her chamber in the morning to go to early mass, Kriemhilde fainted on viewing the heartrending sight

"She sank down on the ground, no word more did she say; The lovely, joyless lady before them prostrate lay. Kriemhild's anguish was terrible to view, So loud her cries and wailing that the room echoed through."

The body of the divine hero is laid on a bier in the cathedral. Then Kriemhilde challenges the king and Hagen to approach the shrine containing Siegfried's corpse and take the test that will decide their guilt or innocence. The ancient ordeal reveals the murderer, for at Hagen's approach the wound begins to bleed anew. In Kriemhilde's soul, that heretofore had been so filled with unspeakable love for her incomparable hero that other passions found no place, there arises now an all-destroying hatred and lust of revenge. The expression of this pervades the second part of the _Nibelungenlied_, and reaches its climax in an orgy of blood, in a cataclysm that overwhelms alike all the participants in the murder, her brothers and herself.

Kriemhilde secludes herself at Worms, and mourns her dead for thirteen long years. During all this weary time no single word is addressed by her to Gunther her blood-stained brother. The silence becomes intolerable; and to reconcile her and to divert her thoughts, the kings send for the Nibelung treasure of red gold and precious jewels which lies under dwarf Alberich's guard in the land of the Nibelungs. During four days and nights twelve heavy wagons haul the shining treasure from the hollow of the mountain to the waiting ship. A truce is patched up between the widow and the brothers, but she hates Hagen with a deep and silent hate. Her only consolation lies in chanty toward the poor. Hagen fears the effect of her liberality. He takes the treasure away from her and thus adds further to her debt of hate. Upon Gernot's advice, Hagen sinks the Nibelung hoard in the Rhine, at a place between Worms and Lorsch, and there it rests, according to popular belief, to this very day. Those who knew where it rested swore solemnly never to betray its hiding place, and not one of those who knew survived Kriemhilde's hate. Nemesis now passes from Siegfried the Nibelung to the Burgundian Nibelungs. The Nibelungs' distress begins with the second part of the national epic.

Far away in Hungary, Etzel had lost his wife, Helche, the song-famed queen. Fair Kriemhilde is proposed to him, and, after some doubts whether he should wed a Christian, he is persuaded by his great vassal Riidiger of Bechlarn to undertake the wooing. Riidiger himself is sent on the errand, and proceeds from the Etzel castle to Bechlarn, in Austria, where he is heartily received by his faithful wife, Gotelinde, and his blooming daughter. Gotelinde is deeply affected by the death of the good and noble Helche, and by the thought that she is to be replaced by another wife. At last the envoy arrives at Worms, where Hagen alone recognizes the hero with whom and Walthari of Aquitaine he had once associated at Etzel's court. The kings are not averse to the proposal of marriage, but Hagen, conscious of the irretrievable wrong which he had inflicted upon the queen and apprehensive of the effect of her independence and power, dissuades them: "You do not know Etzel; if you knew him, you would reject his wooing, even though Kriemhilde might accept; it may turn out disastrously to you." Gunther replies: "Friend Hagen, thou mayst not render loyalty; repair by kindly consent to Kriemhilde's happiness the sorrow which thou hast caused to her." But Hagen is unmoved: "If Kriemhilde wears Helche's crown, she will inflict upon us as much sorrow and distress as she will be able to. It becomes heroes to avoid harm."

This anticipation of horror, this foreboding of dreadful evil, continues throughout the lay, until the measure of woe is full. The kings are unconscious of the dark clouds gathering above their heads, but Hagen, in spite of his ferocious bravery, seems, though defiant throughout, to be pursued by Nemesis of the Furies. When Kriemhilde is informed of Etzel's wooing, she replies mournfully: "God forbid you to mock me, poor wretched woman. What shall I be to a man who has already won love from a good wife?"

Heartrending lamentations for the unforgotten and still beloved Siegfried break from the queen. To Rudiger, Etzel's envoy, she states: "He who knows my sharp pain will not ask me to love another man. I lost more in the one than any woman can ever gain." Still, she asks time for deliberation. Gernot and Giselher encourage her: "If anyone can reverse your sorrow, the man is Etzel; from the Rhône to the Rhine, from the Elbe to the sea, no king is powerful as he; rejoice that he has chosen thee for his partner in his glorious realm." "Woe is me, lamentation and mourning beseem me better than marriage; I can no longer go to court as befits a queen; if once I was beautiful, my beauty has vanished long ago." With dry eyes, in bitter pain, she awaits the morning. Nothing can move her to consent. At last, Riidiger vows to her under four eyes with a solemn oath: "And though you had in Hunland no one but me and my loyal kinsman and warriors, still anyone who causes sorrow to you, shall heavily atone for it by my hand." Instantly all the spirits of revenge are aroused in her breast; but Riidiger knows not the terrible thoughts that linger in her bosom, as he swears the solemn oath; he knows not that by his oath he dooms his child, his men, himself to a double death. Kriemhilde, with her heart thirsting for revenge, proceeds with the embassy to Etzel's court. Twenty-four mighty kings and princes are sent by her great husband to meet her. Attila's brother, Blodel, renders her homage; and so, too, does Havart, the Dane, and his faithful vassal, Iring, and of others a host. And there she notices, at the head of his men, whose faces shine forth defiantly from their wolf's helmets, a lofty, almost gigantic hero a lion-like man with his powerful shoulders and loins, cast as of iron; he resembles Siegfried in bright looks and royal brow; but in him Siegfried's serene youth is mellowed to manly maturity. Heavy storms have raged over the head of the hero, whose hair is bound with a regal diadem, whose right arm leans upon his lion shield. This is Theodoric the Goth, Dietrich von Bern of the saga, the greatest hero of the Migration period, next to Siegfried the centre of Teutonic epic, now an exile at Etzel's court until he returns as a victor to the dominions of his fathers.

The strength and majesty of this heroic warrior appeal to the heart of Kriemhilde, but appeal only as the means to the accomplishment of sure revenge on the murderers of her husband, Siegfried. The marriage feast is celebrated at Vienna for seventeen days with profuse magnificence and numberless gifts to the bride; but Kriemhilde's heart is faithful to her first and only love.

"When now the thought would cross her how by the Rhine she sat Beside her noble husband, with tears her eyes were wet; Yet must she weep in secret that it by none was seen."

Thus she proceeds sadly down the Danube to the Etzel castle, a stranger in a strange land concealing her deep woe under her royal splendor. After seven years she bears to Etzel a son, Ortlieb, then six years more pass by twenty-six years in all since Siegfried was murdered at the linden fountain in the Oden forest then at last the time arrives to quench the thirst of her revenge.

Kriemhilde says to Etzel: "For long years I have now been here in a strange land, and no one of my lofty kinsmen has visited us. No longer may I bear the absence from my relatives, for already the rumor goes here, since no one of my family visits us, that I am an exile and a fugitive from my land, without home or friends." The king, ever ready to please Kriemhilde, sends the two singer-heroes, Werbel and Swemlin, to Worms as envoys to invite the Burgundian kings with their suite to visit Hungary at the next solstice. Kriemhilde urges all her relatives to come. The ever suspicious Hagen dissuades the kings from the journey. "You know indeed what we have done to Kriemhilde, that I with my own hand slew her husband. How can we dare to travel in Etzel's land? There we shall lose life and honor King Etzel's wife is of long revenge!" When his warning fails, he advises that the expedition shall be strongly armed and of large numbers. All the vassals are summoned, and eleven thousand men go joyfully forth on their dire mission. The element of music and song is not wanting; brave, cheerful Volker, the fiddler, an expert singer and musician as well as a great warrior, is of the party.

Kriemhilde is informed of the success of the mission, and voices her grim joy: "How are you pleased with the good tidings, dear husband and master; what I have desired ever and ever is now fulfilled." "Your will is mine," replied Etzel; "I never rejoiced thus over the arrival of my own relatives as I do over the arrival of yours."

An ill omen almost prevents the fateful expedition. The hoary mother of the Burgundian Kings and of Kriemhilde dreams, during the preparations for departure, that all the birds in the land lie scattered dead on the fields and groves. Hagen realizes the purport of the dream; but when scorned by Gernot, he says: "It is not fear that moves me; if you order the journey, I shall ride gladly to Etzel's land."

The journey is full of adventures and novel experiences; Hagen, because he is well versed in the intricate roads, is the leader; his adventure with the mermaid-prophetesses is recorded in the first episode. Out of the rustling water the ominous voice of the swan-virgin is heard: "Hagen, Aldrian's son, I will warn thee. Return, as long as it is time yet; no one of your great host will return across the Danube, but one man, the king's chaplain." Hagen fights with the ferryman, whom he found, according to the warning of the mermaids, untrustworthy. He slays him and hurls the corpse into the flood, but, though this is done, the kings still see his blood streaming in the ship. Hagen himself ferries the entire army over the stream. On the last boat rides the chaplain. Him Hagen seizes, as he leans with his hand on the sanctuary, and hurls him pitilessly beneath the surface of the rippling water. The chaplain then turns and safely reaches the home bank; as he shakes in his dripping garments, he sees the Burgundians file into the distance. The first prophecy is fulfilled, and Hagen now realizes the irretrievable doom that awaits the kings and their followers. He destroys the ship, knowing well that it will serve for no one's safe return from the land of the Huns; but he justifies the act as a means of preventing retreat if a coward sought to gain safety by flight.

The description of the hospitality afforded to the Burgundians by Margrave Rudiger of Bechlarn, in Austria, is a classical account of German court life. In it are welded together the customs and manners both of the migration period and the transition period between the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. In the noble hostesses, Rudiger's wife, Gotelinde, and Dietlinde, her lovely daughter, are depicted true types of the loftiest German womanhood. The royal housewife receives the guests in true German fashion, with a kiss, thus honoring the brothers of her queen. The lovely maiden, too, proceeds along the ranks of the king's suite, offering them the kiss of welcome; but, with the intuitive soul of a pure German woman, she shudders before Hagen's grim features, and only in obedience to her father's order she offers to him her pale cheek for a kiss. There is hardly in any literature such a charming illustration of the joyous nature of a people, as shown in their customs and pleasures and music, as the banquet given by Rudiger. Good cheer prevails at the joyful table over which presided the noble and hospitable Gotelinde. During the afternoon, the daughter of the house appears with her companions to inspire Volker to song and merry jest. The climax of the scene is reached when the Burgundian heroes woo lovely Dietlinde for the youngest of their kings, Giselher. The suit is accepted by the parents, and the betrothal of the noble couple is concluded amid joyful consent and pleasurable anticipation of the marriage, which is to be celebrated when the Burgundians return from Etzel's court. When the hour of parting approaches, precious gifts are exchanged in truly Homeric fashion as a symbol of intimate connection and eternal friendship. Rüdiger presents Gernot with his own sword, which he had gloriously wielded in many a battle. The last blow of the glorious, but ill-fated, sword is, alas! to cleave the head of noble Rüdiger himself. Gotelinde honors Hagen with the shield of her own father, who had fallen in battle.

Dietrich, the hero, first receives the Burgundians on Hunnish soil: "Be welcome, Gunther, Gernot, and Giselher; be welcome, Hagen, Volker, and Dankwart; are you unaware that Kriemhilde still grievously weeps for the hero from the Nibelung land?" "May she weep yet for a long time: he has been slain many years ago; Siegfried will never return; may she cling to the King of the Huns," is Hagen's grimly defiant reply. "How Siegfried fell we will not now investigate: but so long as Kriemhilde lives, grievous calamity is impending; do thou beware of it most of all, O Hagen, heir of the Nibelungs." Still more definitely Dietrich expresses his fears to the Burgundian kings in secret interview; though unaware of a determined plot of revenge, he knows that Etzel's wife raises every morning her loud dirge to mighty God for strong Siegfried's direful death. "It cannot now be helped," replies the brave fiddler Volker; "let us ride to Etzel's court and await what is destined to us by the Huns."

When the eagle helmets and coats of arms of the Burgundians gleam at the gate entrance to the castle, Kriemhilde exclaims: "There are my relatives; let him who loves me be mindful of my sorrow." The heroes are received at Etzel's castle with barbarous splendor, yet a terrible gloom seems to overhang everything. Hagen and Volker, in the consciousness that death is near, join each other in a personal compact for life and death. They seat themselves outside on a stone bench, and are looked at with fear and awe. When Kriemhilde sees from the window her deadly enemy, she is overcome by emotion, her tears flow, and she calls upon her royal vassals around her to avenge her bitter woe and sorrow on Hagen, the murderer of Siegfried. Sixty men buckle on their armor. Kriemhilde herself, with the royal crown on her head, descends to the courtyard to obtain from Hagen's own lips the confession of his deed as a testimony for her men. "I know," she says, "he is so haughty, he will not deny it, so I do not care what happens to him for the deed." While the sixty hostile warriors approach, the two Burgundian heroes once more renew their bond for life and death. To Hagen's question whether Volker will stand by him "in true love as I shall never forsake you," Volker replies: "So long as I live, even though all Hunnish knights storm against us I do not yield from you, Hagen, not a finger's breadth." "Now God reward you, noble Volker, what more do I need? Let them approach, the armored heroes!" This splendid monument of German loyalty partially reconciles us to the horrors soon to be enacted.

Kriemhilde then approaches the terrible pair. Though Volker prompts his comrade to rise before the queen, Hagen defiantly remains seated, and lays before him on his knees a shining sword with a brilliant jewel of green color on the handle. Kriemhilde at once recognizes Siegfried's saga-famed sword Balmung. Her grief is thus renewed. "Who bade you come, Hagen, how could you dare to ride hither? Do you not know what you have done to me?"

"No one sent for me; three kings have been invited hither, they are my masters, I their vassal; where they are, I am."

"You know indeed," continued Kriemhilde, "why I detest you? You have slain Siegfried, and for him I shall weep to the very end."

"Yes," snarled grim Hagen, "I did slay Siegfried, the hero, because Lady Kriemhilde chided fair Brunhild, my queen. Avenge it whoever will, I confess, I caused you much sorrow." Thereupon, war is declared for life and death. However, the sixty Hunnish heroes do not dare to attack the two Burgundians, who rise and go to the royal hall in order that they may stand by their kings should they be in distress.

Kriemhilde enters and salutes her brothers, but bestows a kiss and handshake only on Giselher, the youngest. Hagen ties his helmet more tightly. Kriemhilde inquires whether they had brought her property, the Nibelung treasure, with them.

"The Nibelung treasure," replies Hagen scornfully, "has been buried in the deepest Rhine where it shall lie till the last day, and

"'To thee I bring the devil! In this my buckler have I quite enough to bear, And also in my armor this helm so fairly wrought This sword my hand is holding; therefore I bring thee naught.'"

Kriemhilde requests the Burgundians to give up their arms, as is customary, at friendly visits; Hagen refuses. She thus realizes that the Burgundians must have been warned.

"Who has done this?" she inquires angrily. Proudly and firmly Dietrich replies: "It is I, I have warned them; on me, thou, terrible one, wilt not avenge this warning." Before his piercing eye Kriemhilde conceals her boiling anger and retreats, throwing hostile glances upon her enemies. The guests, too, retire guarded by the indefatigable Hagen and Volker. For the last time, Volker's music rings out into the night as he sings in sweet melodies the parting from life. It is the _dirge_ for the Burgundian kings and heroes. Kriemhilde vainly endeavors to enlist Hildebrand and Dietrich to aid her revenge. Both refuse.

"He who will slay the Nibelungs will do it without me," says Hildebrand. Nor will Dietrich break faith to those who came in good faith and from whom he had suffered no harm. He says: "By my hand Siegfried will remain unavenged."

At last the queen by great promises wins Blodel, Etzel's brother. He agrees to attack the lesser knights and the men-at-arms who under Dankwart's command rest in the out-houses. During the surprise, Kriemhilde quietly enters the dining hall of the royal castle where the great heroes are already assembled. Her son Ortlieb, only five years old, is presented by Etzel to his uncles and their favor is bespoken when the prince shall be sent to Burgundy for his education. Now the untamed fury of Hagen suddenly breaks out in a fearful explosion. The fierce savagery of the Migration period, regardless of the Christian varnish of the thirteenth century, in striking contrast to the elegiac traits exhibited in the departure of the kings, in Giselher's betrothal to Dietlinde and voiced in Volker's sweet melodies, reappears in an unheard of act of brutal murder. Hagen exclaims that the young king does not look to him as if he would grow very old; that no one would ever see him in Ortlieb's court. While everybody is yet stunned by the ferocious prophecy of the terrible man, Dankwart breaks into the festal hall and shouts:

"Why do you sit here so long, brother Hagen; to you and to God in heaven do I complain of our distress. Knights and servants lie altogether slain in the outhouse." Indeed, Blodel had kept his word, but lost his life in the attempt. Not one Burgundian escaped the carnage, save Dankwart who succeeded in cutting his way through the press. Hagen sprang up like a wounded lion, the sword shone in his mighty hand, and with one blow the head of the innocent royal child was tossed into the lap of his mother Kriemhilde. This atrocious deed is the signal for a universal carnage. In her deathly agony Kriemhilde appeals to Dietrich, who is at once ready to fulfil his duty toward the queen and consort of his host and protector, Etzel. Dietrich demands peace for himself and his men, who are no participants in the strife. King Gunther bids all go who are not involved in the murder of his men; he will take his revenge but on the retinue of Etzel who are in the plot. Etzel and Kriemhilde, Rudiger of Bechlarn, Dietrich and his retinue, leave the hall. Then the battle began to rage again, until all Etzel's men were slain. Their bodies were hurled by the Burgundians downstairs in front of the door. Intoxicated by the victory, Hagen, in the doorway, reviles Kriemhilde for her second marriage, and the latter, exasperated, promises to fill Etzel's shield with gold for him who would bring her Hagen's head. It is not our task to describe here the battle, the blood flowing in rivulets from the hall to the courtyard. The attempt to obtain a free departure from the hall to die in open battle fails, since Kriemhilde fears Hagen might escape her vengeance. Yet even among those horrors a feature of love and truth is not missing. Giselher, who was hardly a boy when Siegfried was murdered, addresses his sister:

"O fair sister, how could I expect this great and dire calamity when thou invitedst me from the Rhine. How do I deserve death in this strange land? At all times was I true to thee, and never did I a wrong; I hoped to find thee loving and gracious to me; let me die quickly, if it must be!"

Deeply moved by his words, Kriemhilde demands only the surrender of Hagen. "As to you, I will let you live, for you are my brothers, and children of the same mother." But Gernot rejects the offer: "We die with Hagen, even though we were a thousand of the same race." And "We die with Hagen, if die we must," repeats Giselher; "we shall not forego loyalty unto death."

At the failure of this last attempt at peace, the wrath of Kriemhilde knows no bounds. She orders fire to be put to the hall, and the flames are fanned by the wind to a roaring shower of fire. A terrible thirst increases the torture, until the heroes quench it according to Hagen's advice with the blood of the slain. When the night sets in, the Burgundians protect themselves with their shields from the falling timbers. The last morning dawns. The battle rages anew. At last Riidiger decides, though with a bleeding heart, that the loyalty to his king and queen, the faithfulness of the vassal, must prevail over his truth and love for his new friends, for Giselher, the betrothed of his child. In the ensuing struggle Rudiger splits Gernot's head, while Gernot's last blow with Rüdiger's own sword ends the latter's life. Both heroes thus mingle their blood in death.

The bloody contest continues until all the Goths, with the exception of Hildebrand and Dietrich, are slain. In the royal hall, Gunther and Hagen alone stand over the bodies of their brothers and companions from Burgundy. Dietrich demands their surrender; the demand is rejected by Hagen. The last terrible duel begins. Dietrich inflicts a severe wound upon Hagen, seizes him with his mighty arms, chains him in his lion's grasp, and thus delivers him to Kriemhilde. The same fate awaits Gunther. Recommending the lives of the heroes to Kriemhilde, Dietrich leaves the court.

Kriemhilde vows to Hagen that she will spare his life if he will return to her the hidden hoard, the Nibelung treasure. Though grievously wounded and lying in chains, Hagen, loyal to his masters, replies: "So long as one of my masters lives, I will not reveal the hiding place of the treasure." The queen is desperate. She causes her own royal brother's head to be cut off, and herself carries it by the hair to Hagen. The true vassal cries out with sad resolution: "Now it is accomplished as thou hast willed."

"'Dead is now of Burgundy the noble monarch true, Giselher, the young prince, and eke Gernot too. Of the Hoard knows no one save God and I alone; To thee, thou devil's wife, shall it ne'er be shown.'"

"Then only the sword of Siegfried, my sweet husband, is left to me." She draws it from the sheath, and, by the hand of the long-sorrowing wife, Siegfried's sword avenges Siegfried's death upon his murderer.

At this moment old Hildebrand, wrathful over the breach of the condition imposed upon her by Dietrich when he delivered Gunther and Hagen to her, cuts her down. Kriemhilde, with a frightful scream, sinks to the ground, beside the body of her deadly enemy.

"With anguish thus had ended the monarch's revelry, As love will to sorrow too oft become a prey."

Kriemhilde, the German woman par excellence, with her heart filled with all the virtues of love and faith, outraged in her holiest feelings, and thus "turning the milk of human kindness to fermenting dragon's poison," presents to us all the potentialities of womanhood, and withal the entire range of the psychology of German womanhood.

When we emerge from the orgy of hate and bloodshed with which the second part of the _Nibelungenlied_ is filled, when we have fathomed the depths of the passion of which a high-minded, loving type of royal womanhood such as Kriemhilde is capable, we are glad to resort to the beneficent contrast of womanly gentleness and loveliness which we find in _Gudrun_, the second great mediaeval German epic, whose roots and branches are deeply set in the Migration period. We discover here a portrait of the culture of the time, its warfare, its seafaring, its discoveries, its geographical horizon, and, especially, its love and truth and faith. If we were stirred in the former epic by the gloomy and lurid background that overshadowed even its sunniest scenes; if the sinking of the noblest, purest, most affectionate Kriemhilde into demoniacal passion did not permit us to arrive at a serene contemplation of that gigantic work of art, we now celebrate the triumph of the loyalty and devotion and perseverance of a genuine womanly heart over long and bitter sorrow and humiliations. While Kriemhilde's fierce hatred immolates both herself and a great dynasty on the altar of revenge, in _Gudrun_ we celebrate the victory of self-abnegation, patience, and peace, and the reconciliation of two mighty dynasties.

The theatre of action of this, the second greatest national epic, is the entire range of the North Sea, with its measureless limits extending into mythical infinity, with its long coast line and sea-girt isles, with its Viking ships storm-tossed on the watery roads of all the races. The North Sea did not limit the sturdiness of the Teutonic seafarers of the Norse race, just as the Mediterranean did not restrain their energy and wandering instincts. As the Lombard cycle of sagas reaches out beyond the confines of the Teutonic world to Constantinople, to Syria, to Babylon, and to the mythical lands beyond the seas, so the cycle of the North leads us not only to the Netherlands, the land of the Frisians and Ditmarsch, but over to Seeland, Normandy, Ireland, even to the Orkneys, and perchance to Iceland.

And perhaps it may not be amiss, by way of contrast and to show the opposite poles of the Germanic world, to recount briefly an epic lay of the Lombard cycle which breathes quite a different atmosphere and exhibits different colors, geographically and morally speaking, from those of the North Sea. In the Lombard cycle there is a connection of the Teutonic cosmos with the fabulous Oriental world. King Ortnit of _Lamparten_ (Lombardy) wins by a series of stratagems the resplendent daughter of the heathen king Nachaol, of Muntabur, in Syria, and makes her his wife. Descriptions of golden armor, magic rings, and rich treasures of the East betray everywhere the Oriental character of this Langobard legend.

More Germanic, though its sources lay entirely in the Byzantine Empire, is the saga of _Hugdietrich_ with its moral of the all-pervading power of love. The names of the leading characters especially indicate the Teutonic setting of the saga. Hugdietrich is King of Constantinople, and, after the early death of his father, is reared by Duke Berchtung. At the age of twelve an Oriental age for marriage he consults with his guardian concerning the choice of a wife. The choice falls upon the fair maiden Hildeburg, daughter of King Walgund at Salnek (_Saloniki_); but this princess is confined in a lofty tower, for it has been decided that she is never to marry. Unlike Danae, the Greek beauty, who is reached in her solitary tower by the love of the Olympian Zeus in the form of a golden rain, Hildeburg receives Hugdietrich in a more satisfactory form. The young king to attain his end disguises himself in the garb of a maiden with flowing golden hair; he learns feminine arts, among them that of embroidery, and journeys to Salnek, accompanied by a numerous retinue. Here he represents himself as Hildegund, the exiled sister of the King of the Greeks, and is hospitably received by King Walgund. The false Hildegund quickly gains the favor of the royal couple of Salnek by her wonderful embroideries in gold and silver; and when her position at the court is assured, she requests the honor of becoming an attendant and playmate to Hildeburg. This granted, Hugdietrich is admitted to the tower of the captive princess. For twelve weeks, Hugdietrich plays his rôle and teaches his love the art of embroidery, but he is unable longer to restrain his passion, and he reveals himself to her. His love is reciprocated, and a blissful year is passed by the loving pair. At this juncture, Duke Berchtung arrives from Constantinople to conduct Hildegund home, since the king, her brother, wishes to receive her again into grace and brotherly affection. Hildeburg is left in painful longing and sadness. Soon afterward she gives birth to a son, whom she tries to conceal from the sight of men. One day, however, her mother surprises her by an unexpected visit; and the frightened nurse lets the babe, wrapped in silken cloths, down among the bushes of the ditch surrounding the castle. When, after the departure of the queen, the child is searched for, he is not to be found. A wolf has carried him away as food for his young. But King Walgund, who, as it happens, is out hunting, kills the wolves, and finds the child grievously weeping. The king takes him under his mantle and brings him to his queen, calling him Wolfdietrich, as he had found him among the wolves. Hildeburg, too, sees him, and recognizes him as her own child by his birthmark, a red cross between his shoulders. She confesses everything to her parents, and is forgiven. Hugdietrich is sent for. He comes, recognizes the boy as his own, kisses him in truly Germanic fashion, wraps his golden mantle around him as a token of recognition, and pronounces the words:

"'Wolfdietrich, O dearest child of mine, Constenople be the inheritance thine.'"

The sagas of the Lombard cycle are the poetic crystallization of the spread of Teutonism over the world of the Orient; they symbolize the national thirst for adventure and strife.

We now turn back from the extreme southeast of Europe to the extreme northwest of that continent, the ideal realm of Gudrun, the noblest type of German womanhood in the domain of German literature.

King Hagen of Ireland, and Hilde, his wife, have a beautiful daughter, also called Hilde. But the king "grudges her to any man who is not over him," and has her suitors slain, for no one is his equal. The fame of Hilde's beauty penetrates also to the coast of the German North Sea, and King Hettel of the Hegelings desires her for his wife. Five great vassals of the king, Wate of Stormland (Holstein), the great hero and singer, Frute, Horant of Denmark, Morung of Nifland, and Irolt of Ortland, set out to win the cherished bride for their king. Seven hundred warriors are hidden in the hold of the great ship built of cypress wood, covered with silver plate, and brave in golden rudders, silken sails, and anchors forged from silver. The stratagem devised by the suitors lies in the tale by which they will inform King Hagen that they were driven out by Hettel, the tyrannical king, and that, being merchants, they carried away their treasures on their flight to Ireland. By exceedingly rich presents, they win the good will of Hagen and especially that of young Hilde, who persuades her father to admit them to the court. Horant delights all by his Orphean music, "so enchanting that his melodies pierced the heart, and the little birds stopped singing before his divine harmonies."

"The beasts of the forest forsook the fresh pasture, The beetle forgot to crawl on through the green grass, The fish fond of shooting through the waves of the waters Arrested their path. Truly, Horant could boast of his art."

Young Hilde's delight in his music prompts her to invite the sweet singer to her chamber, where he sings enchantingly; one of his lays tells of the mermaids, and this leads up to the story of the suit of his royal master. The princess consents to accept the suit, if Horant will promise to sing for her every morning and every night. The hero endowed with the divine art of song entices her still further by telling her that at the royal court there are twelve minstrels greatly superior to himself, the greatest and most musical of all is King Hettel himself. Hilde is then invited to visit the ship and see the treasures thereon. On the fourth day, under the pretext that their king has called them back and makes them amends, the visiting heroes take leave of Hagen. At parting Hagen is requested to pay them a visit with his queen. While the king and the queen are walking upon the strand, young Hilde with her women step upon the ship. Immediately the anchors are hoisted, the sails are unfurled, and the ship shoots through the waves like an arrow. Hagen's ships have shrewdly been made unseaworthy by the cunning Hegelings, who joyfully proceed homeward with their fair booty and land at Wales, the western boundary of Hettel's domains, where they are royally received by the overjoyed king. A brilliant festival is celebrated; in silken tents covered with flowers the heroes surround Hettel's beauteous bride. But before sunset the scene changes to a bloody _Wahhtatt_. King Hagen arms other ships and pursues the captors of his daughter. A terrible battle ensues on the strand of Wales. Lightning sparkles from the golden helmets, the spears fly like snowflakes in a northern winter. Hettel is wounded by Hagen, Hagen by Wate. As once at the very cradle of the Roman Republic, the Sabine spouses saved their Roman husbands from annihilation at the hands of their Sabine fathers and brothers by hurling their own fair bodies between the embittered armies, thus Hilde's loving intercession calms the passions of the struggling heroes. Fierce Hagen is at last reconciled to his daughter and Hettel, and he accompanies them to the royal castle where they are solemnly united in marriage. Historically, we see in these adventures a reminiscence of the ancient Teutonic custom of gaining the bride by conquest or violence.

From the union of Hettel and fair Hilde sprang two children: Ortwin and Gudrun, who even surpasses her mother in beauty. The Hegeling daughter is sought by the most powerful princes, but Hettel deems none worthy of his daughter. Hartmut, King of the Normans, when rejected, appears disguised at Hettel's court and reveals himself to Gudrun, who, feeling pity for the beautiful youth, advises him to flee from her father's wrath: "His life would be done for, were Hettel to recognize him." Hartmut retires but to prepare for war, for once having seen charming Gudrun, he can no longer live without her. Meanwhile, Herwig of Seeland, a Frisian king, who had also been rejected, appears with three thousand heroes before Hettel's castle: he strikes the flaming wind from many a helmet. Fair Gudrun has never known such delight as that which the deeds of the brave heroes give; the sight of him is to her both love and sorrow. Herwig and Hettel meet in deadly combat, "fiery glow flamed from their shields, red wounds are struck," until Gudrun intercedes in person; peace is concluded, and Herwig is betrothed to Gudrun.

The news of this engagement exasperates King Siegfried of Morland, who had sought vainly for Gudrun's hand. He invades Herwig's country, and Herwig in his extremity appeals to Gudrun, his betrothed. Her father, Hettel, with his men, goes to Herwig's aid. While he is thus engaged, Ludwig and Hartmut of Normandy, having learned through spies that the land of the Hegelings is denuded of men, sail with a powerful host to Hettel's land and soon advance upon the sunny castle of Hilde. Hartmut, unwilling to wrong his beloved Gudrun if she will accept his suit, announces his love to her, and threatens to carry her away by force if she resists. Gudrun replies that she belongs, body and soul, to Herwig and that she will never break faith with him. Ludwig and Hartmut storm the castle and carry away Gudrun and her sixty-two attendants, among them her best beloved companion, Hildeburg. Queen Hilde looks on with powerless tears and broken heart. She sends messengers to Hettel and Herwig, who conclude an honorable peace with King Siegfried, and with their new ally set out in pursuit of the Normans. At the mouth of the river Sheldt, on the island of Wulpensand, the Normans with their beautiful captive rest. Here they are overtaken by the Seelanders. The terrible battle that ensues has been sung in many lays throughout Germany. "You'd see the heroes' bodies with glowing blood color the sea. The waves flowed to the strand reddened everywhere."

More and more Hegelings sink to the ground. Ludwig slays King Hettel: "This was sorrowful tidings to many hearts." When fierce Wate perceives his master's death, he begins to rage like a wild boar. Ortwin and Horant are beside themselves with rage and strive to avenge their fallen king, but night stops the carnage. The Normans succeed in reaching their ships under the cover of darkness and in escaping with their hard-won booty. The Hegelings are so reduced in numbers that no further pursuit can be made. Wate brings the sad tidings to Queen Hilde in the desolate tower: "No use to keep the calamity from you; I will not deceive you, they are all dead, our heroes." Revenge must be postponed, "until all those who now stand before us as children, have grown ripe for the sword; many a noble orphan will then be mindful of his father and will be a helper on the new journey." But poor Hilde expresses her despair of the distant hope.

Meanwhile, the triumphant Normans approach the coast of their fatherland. King Ludwig, in sight of the towers of his castle, kindly reminds tearful Gudrun that all this beautiful land shall belong to her if she will marry Hartmut. This only increases her sorrow: "Ere I'll take Sir Hartmut, I shall rather be dead. His is not of a house that I could love him. I'll lose life rather than win him as my friend." Incensed at her bitter words, Ludwig seizes the princess by the hair and hurls her into the foaming sea. But loving Hartmut springs after her, rescues her and places her with tender care in his boat. At the landing Queen Gerlinde and her daughter Ortrun with their attendants hasten to welcome the Norman heroes and fair Gudrun, who accepts Ortrun's kiss, but refuses that of the old queen, knowing well that the latter is the source of all her misfortunes, and having a presentiment of the greater evils that threatened her. As she continues to cling to her betrothed, Herwig, and defies the advances of Hartmut, whose father had slain hers, Gerlinde undertakes to break her pride while Hartmut is absent upon a new expedition. But the young king entreats his mother before his departure "to instruct the poor, homeless princess in all kindness." This the queen attempts, but as Gudrun persists in her refusal, Gerlinde is enraged and exclaims: "If thou wilt not have joy, sorrow shall be thy share." Thereafter, she subjects Gudrun to a series of humiliations. First, she is separated from her noble playmates, who are condemned to spin and do other womanly handiwork. The royal virgin herself is forced to perform the most servile work, she is obliged to heat the stoves, to wash the linen, and to sweep the floor, this last with her silken hair; she is chastised by Gerlinde, she is fed on black bread and water, and her couch is a hard bench. Ortrun's sisterly affection for Gudrun is the only bright spot in her gloomy existence. Hartmut's love and the protection which he vowed to her at first, finally turn to impatience, and he abandons her to the unmitigated ill treatment of her tormentor, Queen Gerlinde, by whom Gudrun is condemned to perpetual servitude and shame. Gudrun's noble attendant, Hildeburg, by piteous entreaty obtains permission to participate in the grievous work of her royal mistress. For nearly six years they wash Gerlinde's garments in the sea, in wind and storm, in snow and ice. But Gudrun's pure and faithful heart remains unshaken.

Thirteen years have now passed since the terrible events on the Wulpensand. The boys of the land of the Hegelings have grown to be men. Queen Hilde, unforgetful of the captivity of her daughter Gudrun, and of her duty to avenge King Mattel's death, summons her heroes and friends and allies, foremost among whom is Herwig, to an expedition against the Normans. A strong fleet is armed; some sixty thousand men follow Hilde's summons. Horant of Denmark is the leader of the fleet. After a stormy passage the coast of Normandy is reached. The allies land unnoticed under the cover of mountain and forest, safe from the observation of the spies. Ortwin, Gudrun's brother, and Herwig, her betrothed, go forward as scouts.

Following the natural order of events, we now pass in the grand epic to the romantic element, the lyrical _intermettfp_ of longing and love, of truth and faith, to the realm of hope and consolation. All the virtues and charms of the Teutonic woman's nature are revealed in Gudrun: superhuman agencies intervene for her deliverance. One day Gudrun and Hildeburg stand on the strand of the sea, occupied with their customary menial work of washing, in strange contrast to the same womanly occupation of the Grecian princess Nausicaa and her noble attendants in the Odyssey, where everything is brightness and delight, when they suddenly perceive a beautiful bird swimming toward them. It is a divine messenger, who brings them glad tidings, pronounced with a human voice:

"Be ready, homeless maid, a lofty happiness awaits thee; God sends me for thy comfort to this strand." He satisfies her longing questions, tells her that Hilde lives, and of the hosts and the fleet she has sent out for Gudrun's rescue, of Ortwin and Herwig and all the rest of her liberators. Then the mysterious bird disappears, and the two princesses are left in suspense. They forget their work, and must therefore at their return endure the bitter chidings of Gerlinde, who sends them forth the next morning to the same work, to which they go barefooted and clothed only in their shirts, though heavy snow covers the fields, and ice dams the waterways. Well might they then send out their longing glances over the sea whence are to come the messengers whom the queen Hilde has sent for their rescue. Suddenly they perceive two men approaching in a boat. Ashamed of their servile work, and still more of their nakedness, they flee, but Herwig and Ortwin call them back and offer their mantles to the unknown and beautiful servants, who tremble from cold, in their wet shirts, their locks flying in the sharp wind. Modestly they refuse to accept the mantles of the men. Ortwin inquires the name of the person who has subjected them to such cruel work. Herwig looks in silent amazement at the beautiful, the glorious, the royal woman in her degradation; "the hero compared her to one whom he cherished in true memory."

When Ortwin further inquires after the noble women, especially Gudrun, who many years ago had been dragged into Normandy, she replies: "Gudrun died in sorrow," a characteristic reply which proves that in the ancient Germanic world, as well as in that of Greece, a cunning little lie was not amiss even in the mouth of a charming princess. When the tears well forth from the eyes of the heroes, another trait of the ancient Germanic past as well as of the Greek, and Herwig draws forth the betrothal ring of yore, Gudrun says, smiling:

"'Well do I know this ringlet, betimes it came from me; Behold now this one, warriors, by Herwig sent to me, When I, abandoned orphan, lived in my father's land.'"

Overwhelmed by joy, Herwig clasps his beloved Gudrun in his arms to carry her away at once, but proud Ortwin wil! not snatch her away stealthily from the enemy; and Herwig promises to stand, before the sun rises in the morning, before the gates of the Norman city with sixty thousand chosen warriors. The maidens follow with their eyes the departing heroes till their boat vanishes in the mist.

Gudrun exults over the thought of their approaching liberation. Her entire nature seems to change. From the patient, enduring, humble, martyr-like, though constant and faithful, maiden, she changes to a proud, self-asserting queen. Angrily she hurls the linen, the symbol of her humiliation, into the flood; she is too highly placed; she declares to the warning, anxious friend Hildeburg that she will never wash again for Gerlinde, for two kings have kissed her and held her in their arms. When, at their late arrival at the castle, Gerlinde receives them with harsh words, asks for the linen, and learns that Gudrun has thrown it into the sea, the she-wolf as she is called here in the epic orders thorn rods to be tied together to chastise Gudrun. But the cunning maiden, who, as we have seen, does not shrink from a needful little lie, escapes by a clever ruse:

"'Release me from chastisement, you'll gladly do it sure; For whom I have rejected, I choose now for my lord; As queen will I reside in the Normanish fields; In power I shall perform deeds: you'll scarcely trust your eyes."

Gerlinde immediately informs her son Hartmut of Gudrun's decision; but when he hastens to the spot to embrace her, she declines, saying:

"'O King Hartmut, leave this yet undone! If people saw this action, it would be your dishonor; I am a lowly servant, how would it be befitting, Were a mighty king to embrace me or to touch me?'"

Overjoyed, Hartmut orders Gudrun and her maidens to be clothed in costly garments and to be regaled royally; and for the first time in fourteen years Queen Gudrun laughs merrily among her Hegeling sisters, who are overcome by the sudden change of events. The report of Gudrun's merriment causes Gerlinde a presentiment of evil; she warns her son, but he has no eyes or ears but for Gudrun's charms. When the maidens retire for the first time in fourteen years to a soft couch, Gudrun reveals to them the fact that help and salvation are near, and promises "buroughs and acres" to her who will first announce to her the morning which shall bring to them the day of freedom and of revenge.

Meanwhile, Herwig and Ortwin return to their host and relate to the companions Gudrun's and Hildeburg's fate. Old Wate proposes to attack the Normans without delay, and "to wash red the white garments which their white hands had washed in the sea." "Before dawn they shall stand as guests before King Ludwig's fortress." And, indeed, at the rising of the morning star, one of Gudrun's maidens sees from the window the fields shining with arms and the sea filled with sails. Quickly she awakes Gudrun, while at the same time the king's warders cry from the battlements:

"'Get up, ye proud heroes, get up, hosts, to your arms: Brave Normans, all too long, methinks, have you slept.'"

The masterly description of the terrific battle, which is worthy of the best traditions of the German epic, does not belong to this work. Yet the gathering of the Hegelings around Queen Hilde's banner, King Herwig's bride standing high on the battlement of the tower, while King Hartmut and the Norman heroes march under the arch of the gate are objective pictures showing that the womanly element is the pivot upon which the story turns.

When old King Ludwig is slain by Herwig, the she-wolf, Gerlinde, sends out a murderer to kill Gudrun, but Hartmut generously saves her mindful of the beloved one even in the stress of battle. When Hartmut himself is on the point of succumbing under the blows of Wate, Gudrun, softened by Ortrun's prayer, sends out Herwig to intercede in Hartmut's behalf. Wate scornfully refuses, but Herwig, from his love for Gudrun, covers the enemy with his own body, and Hartmut is snatched away and carried into captivity with eighty of his knights. The contrast of this battle with its many traits of love and compassion, even for the enemy, of self-restraint and humanity, to similar scenes in the _Nibelungenlied_ with its ruthless, merciless, savage lust of blood and revenge, is strikingly apparent.

Gerlinde, in miserable fear of death, seeks at last a refuge with Gudrun. The latter is willing to save her old tormenter, but Gerlinde is betrayed to Wate by one of her servants. Wate, who has many of the traits of Hagen in the _Nibelungenlied_, seizes her, wildly exclaiming in fearful wrath, yet using her royal title:

"Lady Queen Gerlinde, you'll never more condemn to menial servitude my queen's sweet daughter." With these words he cuts off her head. The same fate befalls also young Duchess Hergart, one of Gudrun's attendants, who for gifts had bestowed her love upon Hartmut and had been faithless and overbearing to Gudrun. Poor Ortrun, who had befriended Gudrun, and her other women were spared upon Gudrun's intercession. Thus punishment and reward are evenly balanced; the ethical element of equal justice prevails everywhere, leaving no bitter aftertaste to the reader of the glorious epic. When King Herwig enters the lofty hall of the Norman king with his companions, Gudrun lovingly hastens toward him, and puts her arms around her hero.

The dead are removed, the blood-stained walls are cleaned so that Gudrun may dwell in the castle, and the Hegelings begin "to inspect Hartmut's inheritance." After the hostile fortresses are broken and justice is satisfied, the conquerors depart with Gudrun and rich treasures: Hartmut is carried away with the other prisoners. Queen Hilde receives her heroes on the shore, but, at first, does not recognize her daughter Gudrun when she is led up to her. Mother and daughter hold one another in a tender embrace: sorrow and pain quickly turn to joy and delight. Ortrun, too, is received graciously for the noble friendship bestowed by her upon Gudrun during the long years of captivity. Hartmut and his men, having pledged themselves not to escape, are freed from their fetters.

Now the preparations for the festivities of love and marriage are begun. The epic rings out in a sweet chant of love and reconciliation. Gudrun's faithfulness is blessed by Herwig's marital love. But Gudrun is unwilling to be blessed alone. The hate between the Normans and the Hegelings must be wiped out: the Norman princess Ortrun is married to King Ortwin. Hartmut, who for so long had cherished a hopeless love for Gudrun, transfers his affections to noble Hildeburg, who had shared Gudrun's sorrowful captivity.

The bridals are celebrated on one day, mourning and woe are changed to joy, the hostile races are reconciled and reunited by the ties of blood and love in an alliance for defence and offence. The end of the _Gudrun saga_ stands thus, in direct contrast to the end of the _Nibelungenlied_. The type of Kriemhilde has revealed to us one-half of the possibilities of the German woman's soul; the type of Gudrun, its other half, in its sweetness, its endurance, its martyrdom for all that is great and good and noble; its patriotism, love, and virtue. Within the range of those two natures we can differentiate all the souls of the millions of German women that lived and loved, hated and struggled, suffered and died in the dim ages of the foundation of Germanic social order and institutions.