Fafner: … we’ll then return; but if we come back (#19:) and the Rhinegold, bright and red, (#19:) is not lying ready as ransom –
Fasolt: (#19:) Your term will be up then (:#19); Freia forfeit: she’ll follow us for ever! (…)
Donner: May they all perish [“Breche denn alles” surely ought to be translated something like: “Let everything go to rack and ruin!”?]! (They look inquiringly at Wotan)
Freia: (in the distance) Save me! Help!
[Loge describes the giants carrying Freia off accompanied by a #picturesque clopping music]
Loge: (turning to the gods) Why’s Wotan so strangely thoughtful? What ails the blessed immortals?
(#24 & #25 varis): A pale mist, growing gradually denser, fills the stage, so that the gods acquire an increasingly wan and aged appearance. They all stand gazing anxiously and expectantly at Wotan, who is lost in thought, his eyes fixed firmly on the ground.)
Loge: (#29 vari or #31?:) Is the mist playing tricks? Does dream delude me (:#24 & #25)? How fearful and wan you wither away so soon! (#29 vari or 31?:) The bloom in your cheeks is fading; the light has gone from your eyes (:#29 vari or #31?)!
[Loge mocks Froh’s and Donner’s weakness]
Loge: (#29 vari or #31?:) What ails fricka? Is she little pleased (:#29 vari or #31?) (#30a or #30b?:) at Wotan’s sullen grayness, that suddenly makes him old (:#30a or #30b?)?
Fricka: (#5?:) Woe! Ah woe! (:#5?)! (#30a variant?:) What has happened (:#30a variant?)?
[Donner and Froh complain about their growing weakness as they age]
