Siegfried dismounts. To seem more threatening he pauses before turning to face the situation, palms the pommel of his sword. Only now does he bother to get a good look at his captive. He reckons her twenty-four or so to to his own thirty. What she wears is little better than a sack tied with an apron. Her shoes are in abysmal condition.

Like many peasant women, she is full-bodied despite her lack of everything, strong armed and tan-skinned from labor. There is a dignity in the broad span of her shoulders. Her plump mouth is spread thin into a scowl and her large hazel eyes peer up at Siegfried with unmitigated loathing. It is as though in the time between Siegfried’s conversation with her father and when they all began to walk in the direction of town, she had bartered with some spirit all concern for her own life in exchange for this brave ire.