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Updated: May 16, 2025
Older times more distant from our own in spirit, though not necessarily in years have presented us with many themes of guilt: the guilt which exists according to our own moral standard, but not according to that of the narrator, as the magnificently tragic Icelandic incest story of Sigmund and Signy; the guilt which has come about no one well knows how, an unfortunate circumstance leaving the sinner virtually stainless, in his or her own eyes and the eyes of others, like the Homeric Helen; the heroic guilt, where the very heroism seems due to the self-sacrifice of the sinner's innocence, of Judith; the struggling, remorseful guilt, hopelessly overcome by fate and nature, of Phædra; the dull and dogged guilt, making the sinner scarce more than a mere physical stumbling-block for others, of the murderer Hagen in the Nibelungenlied; and, finally, the perverse guilt, delighting in the consciousness of itself, of demons like Richard and Iago, of libidinous furies like the heroines of Tourneur and Marston.
It was over in a minute, nor would Sigmund deign to further punish the little humpback who had been ridiculous enough to attack him.
Sigmund dropped his head, and petted the shepherd dog between his knees. He had brought Shep in with him from the outside, and thought a great deal of the animal.
Often did he get a token from Signy. They two, the last of the Volsungs, knew that King Siggeir and his house would have to perish for the treason he had wrought on their father and their brothers. Sigmund knew that his sister would send her son to help him. One morning there came to his hut a boy of ten years.
And so that none but him might come to me, All-Father put the fire-ring round where I lay in slumber. And it is thou, Sigurd, son of Sigmund, who hast come to me. Thou art the bravest and I think thou art the most beautiful too; like to Tyr, the God who wields the sword." She told him that whoever rode through the fire and claimed her as his wife, him she must wed.
Red shields we did, Doughty knights of the Huns, Hosts spear-dight, hosts helm-dight, All a high king's fellows; And the ships of Sigmund From the land swift sailing; Heads gilt over And prows fair graven. On the cloth we broidered That tide of their battling, Siggeir and Siggar, South in Fion.
Therewith he gives the meal-bag into his hands while he himself went to fetch firing; but when he came back the youngling had done naught at the bread-making. Then asks Sigmund if the bread be ready Says the youngling, "I durst not set hand to the meal sack, because somewhat quick lay in the meal."
So Sigmund spoke, and the boy went away weeping. A year later another son of Signy's came. As before Sigmund hardly looked at and hardly spoke to the boy. He said: "There is the mealbag. Mix the meal and make ready the bread against the time I return." When Sigmund came back the bread was unmade. The boy had shrunk away from where the bag was. "Thou hast not made the bread?" Sigmund said.
Sigmund and Sinfjötli are always close comrades, "need-companions" as the Anglo-Saxon calls them. They are indivisible and form one story. Sigurd, on the other hand, is only born after his father Sigmund's death.
One of the two beings, in whom ran that good and true blood, was taken in glory; the other is left to be, in peace, the mother of many a brave Sigmund yet unborn, the mother, first, of him to whom we have given to-day the spotless name his fathers bore. He paused again and lifted high the great beaker of old Rhine wine.
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