there to mend it for himself. Mimmy shakes his head, and bids him
see now how his youthful laziness and frowardness have found him
out--how he would not learn the smith's craft from Professor
Mimmy, and therefore does not know how even to begin mending the
sword. Siegfried Bakoonin's retort is simple and crushing. He
points out that the net result of Mimmy's academic skill is that
he can neither make a decent sword himself nor even set one to
rights when it is damaged. Reckless of the remonstrances of the
scandalized professor, he seizes a file, and in a few moments
utterly destroys the fragments of the sword by rasping them into
a heap of steel filings. Then he puts the filings into a
crucible; buries it in the coals; and sets to at the bellows with
the shouting exultation of the anarchist who destroys only to
clear the ground for creation. When the steel is melted he runs
it into a mould; and lo! a sword-blade in the rough. Mimmy,
amazed at the success of this violation of all the rules of his
craft, hails Siegfried as the mightiest of smiths, professing
himself barely worthy to be his cook and scullion; and forthwith
proceeds to poison some soup for him so that he may murder him
safely when Fafnir is slain. Meanwhile Siegfned forges and
tempers and hammers and rivets, uproariously singing the while as
nonsensically as the Rhine maidens themselves. Finally he assails
the anvil on which Mimmy's swords have been shattered, and
cleaves it with a mighty stroke of the newly forged Nothung.

The Second Act

In the darkest hour before the dawn of that night, we find
ourselves before the cave of Fafnir, and there we find Alberic,
who can find nothing better to do with himself than to watch the