may have become mere error; but it still claims the right to die
a natural death, and will raise its hand against the millennium
itself in self-defence if it tries to come by the short cut of
murder. Wotan finds this out when he comes face to face with
Siegfried, who is brought to a standstill at the foot of the
mountain by the disappearance of the bird. Meeting the Wanderer
there, he asks him the way to the mountain where a woman sleeps
surrounded by fire. The Wanderer questions him, and extracts his
story from him, breaking into fatherly delight when Siegfried,
describing the mending of the sword, remarks that all he knew
about the business was that the broken bits of Nothung would be
of no use to him unless he made a new sword out of them right
over again from the beginning. But the Wanderer's interest is by
no means reciprocated by Siegfried. His majesty and elderly
dignity are thrown away on the young anarchist, who, unwilling to
waste time talking, bluntly bids him either show him the way to
the mountain, or else "shut his muzzle." Wotan is a little hurt.
"Patience, my lad," he says: "if you were an old man I should
treat you with respect." "That would be a precious notion," says
Siegfried. "All my life long I was bothered and hampered by an
old man until I swept him out of my way. I will sweep you in the
same fashion if you don't let me pass. Why do you wear such a big
hat; and what has happened to one of your eyes? Was it knocked
out by somebody whose way you obstructed?" To which Wotan replies
allegorically that the eye that is gone--the eye that his
marriage with Fricka cost him--is now looking at him out of
Siegfried's head. At this, Siegfried gives up the Wanderer as a
lunatic, and renews his threats of personal violence. Then Wotan
throws off the mask of the Wanderer; uplifts the world-governing
spear; and puts forth all his divine awe and grandeur as the