Freia gone, the gods begin to wither and age: her golden apples,
which they so lightly bargained away, they now find to be a
matter of life and death to them; for not even the gods can live
on Law and Godhead alone, be their castles ever so splendid. Loki
alone is unaffected: the Lie, with all its cunning wonders, its
glistenings and shiftings and mirages, is a mere appearance: it
has no body and needs no food. What is Wotan to do? Loki sees the
answer clearly enough: he must bluntly rob Alberic. There is
nothing to prevent him except moral scruple; for Alberic, after
all, is a poor, dim, dwarfed, credulous creature whom a god can
outsee and a lie can outwit. Down, then, Wotan and Loki plunge
into the mine where Alberic's slaves are piling up wealth for him
under the invisible whip.

Third Scene

This gloomy place need not be a mine: it might just as well be
a match-factory, with yellow phosphorus, phossy jaw, a large
dividend, and plenty of clergymen shareholders. Or it might be
a whitelead factory, or a chemical works, or a pottery, or a
railway shunting yard, or a tailoring shop, or a little
gin-sodden laundry, or a bakehouse, or a big shop, or any other
of the places where human life and welfare are daily sacrificed
in order that some greedy foolish creature may be able to hymn
exultantly to his Platonic idol:

Thou mak'st me eat whilst others starve,
And sing while others do lament:
Such untome Thy blessings are,
As if I were Thine only care.