SCENE I.-Rural scenery in the neighborhood of CHARLES VON MOOR’S castle.

CHARLES VON MOOR, KOSINSKY, at a distance.

CHARLES.  Go forward, and announce me.  You remember what you have to say?

KOSINSKY.  You are Count Brand, you come from Mecklenburg.  I am your groom.  Do not fear, I shall take care to play my part.  Farewell!
                         [Exit.]

CHARLES.  Hail to thee, Earth of my Fatherland (kisses the earth.) Heaven of my Fatherland!  Sun of my Fatherland!  Ye meadows and hills, ye streams and woods!  Hail, hail to ye all!  How deliciously the breezes are wafted from my native hills?  What streams of balmy perfume greet the poor fugitive!  Elysium!  Realms of poetry!  Stay, Moor, thy foot has strayed into a holy temple. (Comes nearer.)

See there! the old swallow-nests in the castle yard! –­and the little garden-gate!-and this corner of the fence where I so often watched in ambuscade to teaze old Towzer!-and down there in the green valley, where, as the great Alexander, I led my Macedonians to the battle of Arbela; and the grassy hillock yonder, from which I hurled the Persian satrap-and then waved on high my victorious banner! (He smiles.) The golden age of boyhood lives again in the soul of the outcast.  I was then so happy, so wholly, so cloudlessly happy-and now-behold all my prospects a wreck!  Here should I have presided, a great, a noble, an honored man-here have-lived over again the years of boyhood in the blooming-children of my Amelia-here!-here have been the idol of my people-but the foul fiend opposed it (Starting.) Why am I here?  To feel like the captive when the clanking of his chains awakes him from his dream of liberty.  No, let me return to my wretchedness!  The captive had forgotten the light of day, but the dream of liberty flashes past his eyes like a blaze of lightning in the night, which leaves it darker than before.  Farewell, ye native vales! once ye saw Charles as a boy, and then Charles was happy.  Now ye have seen the man his happiness turned to despair! (He moves rapidly towards the most distant point of the landscape, where he suddenly stops and casts a melancholy look across to the castle.) Not to behold her! not even one look?-and only a wall between me and Amelia!  No! see her I must!-and him too!-though it crush me! (He turns back.) Father! father! thy son approaches.  Away with thee, black, reeking gore!  Away with that grim, ghastly look of death!  Oh, give me but this one hour free!  Amelia!  Father! thy Charles approaches! (He goes quickly towards the castle.) Torment me when the morning dawns-give me no rest with the coming night-beset me in frightful dreams!  But, oh! poison not this my only hour of bliss!  (He is standing at the gate.) What is it I feel?  What means this, Moor?  Be a man!  These death-like shudders-foreboding terrors.
                            [Enters.]

SCENE II.-Gallery in the Castle.

[In some editions this is the third scene,
and there is no second.]

Enter CHARLES VON MOOR, AMELIA.

AMELIA.  And are you sure that you should know his portrait among these pictures?

CHARLES.  Oh, most certainly! his image has always been fresh in my memory. (Passing along thee pictures.) This is not it.

AMELIA.  You are right!  He was the first count, and received his patent of nobility from Frederic Barbarossa, to whom he rendered some service against the corsairs.

CHARLES (still reviewing the pictures).  Neither is it this-nor this- nor that-it is not among these at all.

AMELIA.  Nay! look more attentively!  I thought you knew him.

CHARLES.  As well as my own father!  This picture wants the sweet expression around the mouth, which distinguished him from among a thousand.  It is not he.

AMELIA.  You surprise me.  What! not seen him for eighteen years, and still-

CHARLES (quickly, with a hectic blush).  Yes, this is he! (He stands as if struck by lightning.)

AMELIA.  An excellent man!

CHARLES (absorbed in the contemplation of the picture).  Father! father! forgive me!  Yes, an excellent man! (He wipes his eyes.) A godlike man!

AMELIA.  You seem to take a deep interest in him.

CHARLES.  Oh, an excellent man!  And he is gone, you say!

AMELIA.  Gone! as our best joys perish. (Gently taking him by the hand.) Dear Sir, no happiness ripens in this world.

CHARLES.  Most true, most true!  And have you already proved this truth by sad experience?  You, who can scarcely yet have seen your twenty-third year?

AMELIA.  Yes, alas, I have proved it.  Whatever lives, lives to die in sorrow.  We engage our hearts, and grasp after the things of this world, only to undergo the pang of losing them.

CHARLES.  What can you have lost, and yet so young?

AMELIA.  Nothing-everything-nothing.  Shall we go on, count?

[In the acting edition is added- “MOOR.  And would you learn forgetfulness in that holy garb there?  (Pointing to a nun’s habit.) “AMELIA.  To-morrow I hope to do so.  Shall we continue our walk, sir?”]

CHARLES.  In such haste?  Whose portrait is that on the right?  There is an unhappy look about that countenance, methinks.

AMELIA.  That portrait on the left is the son of the count, the present count.  Come, let us pass on!

CHARLES.  But this portrait on the right?

AMELIA.  Will you not continue your walk, Sir?

CHARLES.  But this portrait on the right hand?  You are in tears,
Amelia? [Exit AMELIA, in precipitation.]

CHARLES.  She loves me, she loves me!  Her whole being began to rebel, and the traitor tears rolled down her cheeks.  She loves me!  Wretch, hast thou deserved this at her hands?  Stand I not here like a condemned criminal before the fatal block?  Is this the couch on which we so often sat-where I have hung in rapture on her neck?  Are these my ancestral halls? (Overcome by the sight of his father’s portrait.) Thou-thou- Flames of fire darting from thine eyes-His curse-His curse-He disowns me-Where am I?  My sight grows dim-Horrors of the living God-’Twas I, ’twas I that killed my father!
                        [He rushes off]

         Enter FRANCIS VON MOOR, in deep thought.

FRANCIS.  Away with that image!  Away with it!  Craven heart!  Why dost thou tremble, and before whom?  Have I not felt, during the few hours that the count has been within these walls as if a spy from hell were gliding at my heels.  Methinks I should know him!  There is something so lofty, so familiar, in his wild, sunburnt features, which makes me tremble.  Amelia, too, is not indifferent towards him!  Does she not dart eager, languishing looks at the fellow looks of which she is so chary to all the world beside?  Did I not see her drop those stealthy tears into the wine, which, behind my back, he quaffed so eagerly that he seemed to swallow the very glass?  Yes, I saw it-I saw it in the mirror with my own eyes.  Take care, Francis!  Look about you!  Some destruction-brooding monster is lurking beneath all this! (He stops, with a searching look, before the portrait of CHARLES.)

His long, crane-like neck-his black, fire-sparkling eyes-hem! hem!- his dark, overhanging, bushy eyebrows. (Suddenly starting back.) Malicious hell! dost thou send me this suspicion?  It is Charles!  Yes, all his features are reviving before me.  It is he! despite his mask! it is he!  Death and damnation! (Goes up and down with agitated steps.) Is it for this that I have sacrificed my nights-that I have mowed down mountains and filled up chasms?  For this that I have turned rebel against all the instincts of humanity?  To have this vagabond outcast blunder in at last, and destroy all my cunningly devised fabric.  But gently! gently!  What remains to be done is but child’s play.  Have I not already waded up to my very ears in mortal sin?  Seeing how far the shore lies behind me, it would be madness to attempt to swim back.  To return is now out of the question.  Grace itself would be beggared, and infinite mercy become bankrupt, were they to be responsible for all my liabilities.  Then onward like a man. (He rings the bell.) Let him be gathered to the spirit of his father, and now come on!  For the dead I care not!  Daniel!  Ho!  Daniel!  I’d wager a trifle they have already inveigled him too into the plot against me!  He looks so full of mystery!

Enter DANIEL.

DANIEL.  What is your pleasure, my master?

FRANCIS.  Nothing.  Go, fill this goblet with wine, and quickly! (Exit DANIEL.) Wait a little, old man!  I shall find you out!  I will fix my eye upon you so keenly that your stricken conscience shall betray itself through your mask!  He shall die!  He is but a sorry bungler who leaves his work half finished, and then looks on idly, trusting to chance for what may come of it.

Enter DANIEL, with the wine.

Bring it here!  Look me steadfastly in the face!  How your knees knock together!  How you tremble!  Confess, old man! what have you been doing?

DANIEL.  Nothing, my honored master, by heaven and my poor soul!

FRANCIS.  Drink this wine!  What? you hesitate?  Out with it quickly!  What have you put into the wine?

DANIEL.  Heaven help me!  What!  I in the wine?

FRANCIS.  You have poisoned it!  Are you not as white as snow?  Confess, confess!  Who gave it you?  The count?  Is it not so?  The count gave it you?

DANIEL.  The count?  Jesu Maria!  The count has not given me anything.

FRANCIS (grasping him tight).  I will throttle you till you are black in the face, you hoary-headed liar!  Nothing?  Why, then, are you so often closeted together?  He, and you, and Amelia?  And what are you always whispering about?  Out with it!  What secrets, eh?  What secrets has he confided to you?

DANIEL.  I call the Almighty to witness that he has not confided any secrets to me.

FRANCIS.  Do you mean to deny it?  What schemes have you been hatching to get rid of me?  Am I to be smothered in my sleep? or is my throat to be cut in shaving? or am I to be poisoned in wine or chocolate?  Eh?  Out with it, out with it!  Or am I to have my quietus administered in my soup?  Out with it!  I know it all!

DANIEL.  May heaven so help me in the hour of need as I now tell you the truth, and nothing but the pure, unvarnished truth!

FRANCIS.  Well, this time I will forgive you.  But the money! he most certainly put money into your purse?  And he pressed your hand more warmly than is customary? something in the manner of an old acquaintance?

DANIEL.  Never, indeed, Sir.

FRANCIS.  He told you, for instance, that he had known you before? that you ought to know him? that the scales would some day fall from your eyes? that-what?  Do you mean to say that he never spoke thus to you?

DANIEL.  Not a word of the kind.

FRANCIS.  That certain circumstances restrained him-that one must sometimes wear a mask in order to get at one’s enemies-that he would be revenged, most terribly revenged?

DANIEL.  Not a syllable of all this.

FRANCIS.  What?  Nothing at all?  Recollect yourself.  That he knew the old count well-most intimately-that he loved him-loved him exceedingly-loved him like a son!

DANIEL.  Something of that sort I remember to have heard him say.

FRANCIS (turning pale).  Did he say so? did he really?  How? let me hear!  He said he was my brother?

DANIEL (astonished).  What, my master?  He did not say that.  But as Lady Amelia was conducting him through the gallery-I was just dusting the picture frames-he suddenly stood still before the portrait of my late master, and seemed thunderstruck.  Lady Amelia pointed it out, and said, “An excellent man!” “Yes, a most excellent man!” he replied, wiping a tear from his eye.

FRANCIS.  Hark, Daniel!  You know I have ever been a kind master to you; I have given you food and raiment, and have spared you labor in consideration of your advanced age.

DANIEL.  For which may heaven reward you! and I, on my part, have always served you faithfully.

FRANCIS.  That is just what I was going to say.  You have never in all your life contradicted me; for you know much too well that you owe me obedience in all things, whatever I may require of you.

DANIEL.  In all things with all my heart, so it be not against God and my conscience.

FRANCIS.  Stuff! nonsense!  Are you not ashamed of yourself?  An old man, and believe that Christmas tale!  Go, Daniel! that was a stupid remark.  You know that I am your master.  It is on me that God and conscience will be avenged, if, indeed, there be a God and a conscience.

DANIEL (clasping his hands together).  Merciful Heaven!

FRANCIS.  By your obedience!  Do you understand that word?  By your obedience, I command you.  With to-morrow’s dawn the count must no longer be found among the living.

DANIEL.  Merciful Heaven! and wherefore?

FRANCIS.  By your blind obedience!  I shall rely upon you implicitly.

DANIEL.  On me?  May the Blessed Virgin have mercy on me!  On me?  What evil, then, have I, an old man, done!

FRANCIS.  There is no time now for reflection; your fate is in my hands.  Would you rather pine away the remainder of your days in the deepest of my dungeons, where hunger shall compel you to gnaw your own bones, and burning thirst make you suck your own blood?  Or would you rather eat your bread in peace, and have rest in your old age?

DANIEL.  What, my lord!  Peace and rest in my old age?  And I a murderer?

FRANCIS.  Answer my question!

DANIEL.  My gray hairs! my gray hairs!

FRANCIS.  Yes or no!

DANIEL.  No!  God have mercy upon me!

FRANCIS (in the act of going).  Very well! you shall have need of it. 
(DANIEL detains him and falls on his knees before him.)

DANIEL.  Mercy, master! mercy!

FRANCIS.  Yes or no!

DANIEL.  Most gracious master!  I am this day seventy-one years of age! and have honored my father and my mother, and, to the best of my knowledge, have never in the whole course of my life defrauded any one to the value of a farthing,-and I have adhered to my creed truly and honestly, and have served in your house four-and-forty years, and am now calmly awaiting a quiet, happy end.  Oh, master! master! (violently clasping his knees) and would you deprive me of my only solace in death, that the gnawing worm of an evil conscience may cheat me of my last prayer? that I may go to my long home an abomination in the sight of God and man?  No, no! my dearest, best, most excellent, most gracious master! you do not ask that of an old man turned threescore and ten!

FRANCIS.  Yes or no!  What is the use of all this palaver?

DANIEL.  I will serve you from this day forward more diligently than ever; I will wear out my old bones in your service like a common day-laborer; I will rise earlier and lie down later.  Oh, and I will remember you in my prayers night and morning; and God will not reject the prayer of an old man.

FRANCIS.  Obedience is better than sacrifice.  Did you ever hear of the hangman standing upon ceremony when he was told to execute a sentence?

DANIEL.  That is very true? but to murder an innocent man-one-

FRANCIS.  Am I responsible to you?  Is the axe to question the hangman why he strikes this way and not that?  But see how forbearing I am.  I offer you a reward for performing what you owe me in virtue of your allegiance.

DANIEL.  But, when I swore allegiance to you, I at least hoped that I should be allowed to remain a Christian.

FRANCIS.  No contradiction!  Look you!  I give you the whole day to think about it!  Ponder well on it.  Happiness or misery.  Do you hear- do you understand?  The extreme of happiness or the extreme of misery!  I can do wonders in the way of torture.

DANIEL (after some reflection).  I’ll do it; I will do it to-morrow.
                            [Exit.]

FRANCIS.  The temptation is strong, and I should think he was not born to die a martyr to his faith.  Have with you, sir count!  According to all ordinary calculations, you will sup to-morrow with old Beelzebub.  In these matters all depends upon one’s view of a thing; and he is a fool who takes any view that is contrary to his own interest.  A father quaffs perhaps a bottle of wine more than ordinary-he is in a certain mood-the result is a human being, the last thing that was thought of in the affair.  Well, I, too, am in a certain mood,-and the result is that a human being perishes; and surely there is more of reason and purpose in this than there was in his production.  If the birth of a man is the result of an animal paroxysm, who should take it into his head to attach any importance to the negation of his birth?  A curse upon the folly of our nurses and teachers, who fill our imaginations with frightful tales, and impress fearful images of punishment upon the plastic brain of childhood, so that involuntary shudders shake the limbs of the man with icy fear, arrest his boldest resolutions, and chain his awakening reason in the fetters of superstitious darkness.  Murder!  What a hell full of furies hovers around that word.  Yet ’tis no more than if nature forgets to bring forth one man more or the doctor makes a mistake-and thus the whole phantasmagoria vanishes.  It was something, and it is nothing.  Does not this amount to exactly the same thing as though it had been nothing, and came to nothing; and about nothing it is hardly worth while to waste a word.  Man is made of filth, and for a time wades in filth, and produces filth, and sinks back into filth, till at last he fouls the boots of his own posterity.

["To what base uses we may return, Horatio! why, may not
imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander, till we find it
stopping a bunghole?”-HAMLET, Act v, S.]

That is the burden of the song-the filthy cycle of human fate; and with

SCENE III.-Another Room in the Castle.

CHARLES VON MOOR enters from one side, DANIEL from the other.

CHARLES (hastily).  Where is Lady Amelia?

DANIEL.  Honored sir! permit an old man to ask you a favor.

CHARLES.  It is granted.  What is it you ask?

DANIEL.  Not much, and yet all-but little, and yet a great deal. 
Suffer me to kiss your hand!

CHARLES.  That I cannot permit, good old man (embraces him), from one whom I should like to call my father.

DANIEL.  Your hand, your hand!  I beseech you.

CHARLES.  That must not be.

DANIEL.  It must! (He takes hold of it, surveys it quickly, and falls down before him.) Dear, dearest Charles!

CHARLES (startled; he composes himself, and says in a distant tone). 
What mean you, my friend?  I don’t understand you.

DANIEL.  Yes, you may deny it, you may dissemble as much as you please?  ’Tis very well! very well.  For all that you are my dearest, my excellent young master.  Good Heaven! that I, poor old man, should live to have the joy-what a stupid blockhead was I that I did not at a glance-oh, gracious powers!  And you are really come back, and the dear old master is underground, and here you are again!  What a purblind dolt I was, to be sure! (striking his forehead) that I did not on the instant-Oh, dear me! –­who could have dreamt it-What I have so often prayed for with tears-Oh, mercy me!  There he stands again, as large as life, in the old room!

CHARLES.  What’s all this oration about?  Are you in a fit of delirium, and have escaped from your keepers; or are you rehearsing a stage-player’s part with me?

DANIEL.  Oh, fie! fie!  It is not pretty of you to make game of an old servant.  That scar!  Eh! do you remember it?  Good Heaven! what a fright you put me into-I always loved you so dearly; and what misery you might have brought upon me.  You were sitting in my lap-do you remember? there in the round chamber.  Has all that quite vanished from your memory-and the cuckoo, too, that you were so fond of listening to?  Only think! the cuckoo is broken, broken all to shivers-old Susan smashed it in sweeping the room-yes, indeed, and there you sat in my lap, and cried, “Cockhorse!” and I ran off to fetch your wooden horse- mercy on me! what business had I, thoughtless old fool, to leave you alone-and how I felt as if I were in a boiling caldron when I heard you screaming in the passage; and, when I rushed in, there was your red blood gushing forth, and you lying on the ground.  Oh, by the Blessed Virgin! did I not feel as if a bucket of icy cold water was emptied all over me?-but so it happens, unless one keeps all one’s eyes upon children.  Good Heaven! if it had gone into your eye!  Unfortunately it happened to be the right hand.  “As long as I live,” said I, “never again shall any child in my charge get hold of a knife or scissors, or any other edge tool.”  ’Twas lucky for me that both my master and mistress were gone on a journey.  “Yes, yes! this shall be a warning to me for the rest of my life,” said I-Gemini, Gemini!  I might have lost my place, I might-God forgive you, you naughty boy-but, thank Heaven! it healed fairly, all but that ugly scar.

CHARLES.  I do not comprehend one word of all that you are talking about.

DANIEL.  Eh? eh? that was the time! was it not?  How many a ginger-cake, and biscuit, and macaroon, have I slipped into your bands-I was always so fond of you.  And do you recollect what you said to me down in the stable, when I put you upon old master’s hunter, and let you scamper round the great meadow?  “Daniel!” said you, “only wait till I am grown a big man, and you shall be my steward, and ride in the coach with me.”  “Yes,” said I, laughing, “if heaven grants me life and health, and you are not ashamed of the old man,” I said, “I shall ask you to let me have the little house down in the village, that has stood empty so long; and then I will lay in a few butts of good wine, and turn publican in my old age.”  Yes, you may laugh, you may laugh!  Eh, young gentleman, have you quite forgotten all that?  You do not want to remember the old man, so you carry yourself strange and loftily;-but, you are my jewel of a young master, for all that.  You have, it is true, been a little bit wild-don’t be angry!-as young blood is apt to be!  All may be well yet in the end.

CHARLES (falls on his neck).  Yes!  Daniel!  I will no longer hide it from you!  I am your Charles, your lost Charles!  And now tell me, how does my Amelia?

DANIEL (begins to cry).  That I, old sinner, should live to have this happiness-and my late blessed master wept so long in vain!  Begone, begone, hoary old head!  Ye weary bones, descend into the grave with joy!  My lord and master lives! my own eyes have beheld him!

CHARLES.  And he will keep his promise to you.  Take that, honest graybeard, for the old hunter (forces a heavy purse upon him).  I have not forgotten the old man.

DANIEL.  How?  What are you doing?  Too much!  You have made a mistake.

CHARLES.  No mistake, Daniel! (DANIEL is about to throw himself on his knees before him.) Rise!  Tell me, how does my Amelia?

DANIEL.  Heaven reward you!  Heaven reward you!  O gracious me!  Your Amelia will never survive it, she will die for joy?

CHARLES (eagerly).  She has not forgotten me then?

DANIEL.  Forgotten you?  How can you talk thus?  Forgotten you, indeed!  You should have been there, you should have seen how she took on, when the news came of your death, which his honor caused to be spread abroad-

CHARLES.  What do you say? my brother-

DANIEL.  Yes, your brother; his honor, your brother-another day I will tell you more about it, when we have time-and how cleverly she sent him about his business when he came a wooing every blessed day, and offered to make her his countess.  Oh, I must go; I must go and tell her; carry her the news (is about to run of).

CHARLES.  Stay! stay! she must not know-nobody must know, not even my brother!

DANIEL.  Your brother?  No, on no account; he must not know it!  Certainly not!  If he know not already more than he ought to know.  Oh, I can tell you, there are wicked men, wicked brothers, wicked masters; but I would not for all my master’s gold be a wicked servant.  His honor thought you were dead.

CHARLES.  Humph!  What are you muttering about?

DANIEL (in a half-suppressed voice).  And to be sure when a man rises from the dead thus uninvited-your brother was the sole heir of our late master!

CHARLES.  Old man! what is it you are muttering between your teeth, as if some dreadful secret were hovering on your tongue which you fear to utter, and yet ought?  Out with it!

DANIEL.  But I would rather gnaw my old bones with hunger, and suck my own blood for thirst, than gain a life of luxury by murder.
                          [Exit hastily.]

CHARLES (starting up, after a terrible pause).  Betrayed!  Betrayed!  It flashes upon my soul like lightning!  A fiendish trick!  A murderer and a robber through fiend-like machinations!  Calumniated by him!  My letters falsified, suppressed! his heart full of love!  Oh, what a monstrous fool was I!  His fatherly heart full of love! oh, villainy, villainy!  It would have cost me but once kneeling at his feet-a tear would have done it-oh blind, blind fool that I was! (running up against the wall).  I might have been happy-oh villainy, villainy!

Knavishly, yes, knavishly cheated out of all happiness in this life!  (He runs up and down in a rage.) A murderer, a robber, all through a knavish trick!  He was not even angry!  Not a thought of cursing ever entered his heart.  Oh, miscreant! inconceivable, hypocritical, abominable miscreant!

Enter KOSINSKY.

KOSINSKY.  Well, captain, where are you loitering?  What is the matter?  You are for staying here some time longer, I perceive?

CHARLES.  Up!  Saddle the horses!  Before sunset we must be over the frontier!

KOSINSKY.  You are joking.

CHARLES (in a commanding tone).  Quick! quick! delay not! leave every
thing behind! and let no eye see you! 
                         (Exit KOSINSKY.)

I fly from these walls.  The least delay might drive me raving road; and he my father’s son!  Brother! brother! thou hast made me the most miserable wretch on earth; I never injured thee; this was not brotherly.  Reap the fruits of thy crime in quiet, my presence shall no longer embitter thy enjoyment-but, surely, this was not acting like a brother.  May oblivion shroud thy misdeed forever, and death not bring it back to light.

Enter KOSINSKY.

KOSINSKY.  The horses are ready saddled, you can mount as soon as you please.

CHARLES.  Why in such haste?  Why so urgent?  Shall I see her no more?

KOSINSKY.  I will take off the bridles again, if you wish it; you bade me hasten head over heels.

CHARLES.  One more farewell! one more!  I must drain this poisoned cup of happiness to the dregs, and then-Stay, Kosinsky!  Ten minutes more- behind, in the castle yard-and we gallop off.

Scene IV.-In the Garden.

AMELIA.  “You are in tears, Amelia!” These were his very words-and spoken with such expressionsuch a voice!-oh, it summoned up a thousand dear remembrances!-scenes of past delight, as in my youthful days of happiness, my golden spring-tide of love.  The nightingale sung with the same sweetness, the flowers breathed the same delicious fragrance, as when I used to hang enraptured on his neck.

[Here, in the acting edition, is added, ’Assuredly, if the spirits
of the departed wander among the living, then must this stranger be
Charles’s angel!’]

Ha! false, perfidious heart!  And dost thou seek thus artfully to veil thy perjury?  No, no! begone forever from my soul, thou sinful image!  I have not broken my oath, thou only one!  Avaunt, from my soul, ye treacherous impious wishes!  In the heart where Charles reigns no son of earth may dwell.  But why, my soul, dost thou thus constantly, thus obstinately turn towards this stranger?  Does he not cling to my heart in the very image of my only one!  Is he not his inseparable companion in my thoughts?  “You are in tears, Amelia?” Ha! let me fly from him!- -fly!-never more shall my eyes behold this stranger!
                   [CHARLES opens the garden gate.]

AMELIA (starting).  Hark! hark! did I not hear the gate creak? (She perceives CHARLES and starts up.) He?-whither?-what?  I am rooted to the spot,-I can not fly!  Forsake me not, good Heaven!  No! thou shalt not tear me from my Charles!  My soul has no room for two deities, I am but a mortal maid! (She draws the picture of CHARLES from her bosom.) Thou, my Charles! be thou my guardian angel against this stranger, this invader of our loves!  At thee will I look, at thee, nor turn away my eyes-nor cast one sinful look towards him! (She sits silent, her eyes fixed upon the picture.)

CHARLES.  You here, Lady Amelia?-and so sad? and a tear upon that picture? (AMELIA gives him no answer.) And who is the happy man for whom these silver drops fall from an angel’s eyes?  May I be permitted to look at-(He endeavors to look at the picture.)

AMELIA.  No-yes-no!

CHARLES (starting back).  Ha-and does he deserve to be so idolized? 
Does he deserve it?

AMELIA.  Had you but known him!

CHARLES.  I should have envied him.

AMELIA.  Adored, you mean.

CHARLES.  Ha!

AMELIA.  Oh, you would so have loved him? –­there was so much, so much in his face-in his eyes-in the tone of his voice,-which was so like yours-that I love so dearly! (CHARLES casts his eyes down to the ground.) Here, where you are standing, he has stood a thousand times- and by his side, one who, by his side, forgot heaven and earth.  Here his eyes feasted on nature’s most glorious panorama,-which, as if conscious of his approving glance, seemed to increase in beauty under the approbation of her masterpiece.  Here he held the audience of the air captive with his heavenly music.  Here, from this bush, he plucked roses, and plucked those roses for me.  Here, here, he lay on my neck; here he imprinted burning kisses on my lips, and the flowers hung their heads with pleasure beneath the foot-tread of the lovers.

[In the acting edition the scene changes materially at this point, and the most sentimental part of the whole drama is transformed into the most voluptuous.  The stage direction here is,-(They give way to their transports without control, and mingle their kisses.  MOOR hangs in ecstacy on her lips, while she sinks half delirious on the couch.) O Charles! now avenge thyself; my vow is broken.

   MOOR (tearing himself away from her, as if in frenzy).  Can this be
   hell that still pursues me! (Gazing on her.) I felt so happy!

AMELIA (perceiving the ring upon her finger, starts up from the couch).  What!  Art thou still there-on that guilty hand?  Witness of my perjury.  Away with thee! (She pulls the ring from her finger and gives it to CHARLES.) Take it-take it, beloved seducer! and with it what I hold most sacred-take my all-my Charles! (She falls back upon the couch.)

   MOOR (changes color).  O thou Most High! was this thy almighty
   will?  It is the very ring I gave her in pledge of our mutual
   faith.  Hell be the grave of love!  She has returned my ring.

   AMELIA (terrified).  Heavens!  What is the matter?  Your eyes roll
   wildly, and your lips are pale as death!  Ah! woe is me.  And are
   the pleasures of thy crime so soon forgotten?

MOOR (suppressing his emotion).  ’Tis nothing!  Nothing! (Raising his eyes to heaven.) I am still a man! (He takes of his own ring and puts it on AMELIA’S finger.) In return take this! sweet fury of my heart!  And with it what I hold most sacred-take my all-my Amelia!

   AMELIA (starting up).  Your Amelia!

MOOR (mournfully).  Oh, she was such a lovely maiden, and faithful as an angel.  When we parted we exchanged rings, and vowed eternal constancy.  She heard that I was dead-believed it-yet remained constant to the dead.  She heard again that I was living-yet became faithless to the living.  I flew into her arms-was happy as-the blest in Paradise.  Think what my heart was doomed to feel, Amelia!  She gave me back my ring-she took her own.

   AMELIA (her eyes fixed on the earth in amazement).  ’Tis strange,
   most strange!  ’Tis horrible!

MOOR.  Ay, strange and horrible!  My child, there is much-ay, much for man to learn ere his poor intellect can fathom the decrees of Him who smiles at human vows and weeps at human projects.  My Amelia is an unfortunate maiden!

   AMELIA.  Unfortunate!  Because she rejected you?

   MOOR.  Unfortunate.  Because she embraced the man she betrayed.

   AMELIA (with melancholy tenderness).  Oh, then, she is indeed
   unfortunate!  From my soul I pity her!  She shall be my sister. 
   But there is another and a better world.”]

CHARLES.  He is no more?

AMELIA.  He sails on troubled seas-Amelia’s love sails with him.  He wanders through pathless, sandy deserts-Amelia’s love clothes the burning sand with verdure, and the barren shrubs with flowers.  Southern suits scorch his bare head, northern snows pinch his feet, tempestuous hail beats down on his temples, but Amelia’s love lulls him to sleep in the midst of the storm.  Seas, and mountains, and skies, divide the lovers-but their souls rise above this prison-house of clay, and meet in the paradise of love.  You appear sad, count!

CHARLES.  These words of love rekindle my love.

AMELIA (pale).  What?  You love another?  Alas! what have I said?

CHARLES.  She believed me dead, and in my supposed death she remained faithful to me-she heard again that I was alive, and she sacrificed for me the crown of a saint.  She knows that I am wandering in deserts, and roaming about in misery, yet her love follows me on wings through deserts and through misery.  Her name, too, like yours, is Amelia.

AMELIA.  How I envy your Amelia!

CHARLES.  Oh, she is an unhappy maid.  Her love is fixed upon one who is lost-and it can never-never be rewarded.

AMELIA.  Say not so!  It will be rewarded in heaven.  Is it not agreed that there is a better world, where mourners rejoice, and where lovers meet again?

CHARLES.  Yes, a world where the veil is lifted-where the phantom love will make terrible discoveries-Eternity is its name.  My Amelia is an unhappy maid.

AMELIA.  Unhappy, and loves you?

[In the acting edition the scene closes with a different denouement.  Amelia here says, “Are all unhappy who live with you, and bear the name of Amelia.  “CHARLES.  Yes, all-when they think they embrace an angel, and find in their arms-a murderer.  Alas, for my Amelia!  She is indeed unfortunate.  “AMELIA (with an expression of deep affliction).  Oh, I must weep for her.  “CHARLES (grasping her hand, and pointing to the ring).  Weep for thyself.  “AMELIA (recognizing the ring).  Charles!  Charles!  O heaven and earth!  (She sinks fainting; the scene closes.)”]

CHARLES.  Unhappy, because she loves me!  What if I were a murderer?  How, Lady Amelia, if your lover could reckon you up a murder for every one of your kisses?  Woe to my Amelia!  She is an unhappy maid.

AMELIA (gayly rising).  Ha!  What a happy maid am I!  My only one is a reflection of Deity, and Deity is mercy and compassion!  He could not bear to see a fly suffer.  His soul is as far from every thought of blood as the sun is from the moon. (CHARLES suddenly turns away into a thicket, and looks wildly out into the landscape.  AMELIA sings, playing the guitar.)

     Oh!  Hector, wilt thou go forevermore,
     Where fierce Achilles, on the blood-stained shore,
      Heaps countless victims o’er Patroclus’ grave? 
     Who then thy hapless orphan boy will rear,
     Teach him to praise the gods and hurl the spear,
      When thou art swallowed up in Xanthus’ wave?

CHARLES (silently tunes the guitar, and plays).

Beloved wife!-stern duty calls to arms
Go, fetch my lance! and cease those vain alarms!

[He flings the guitar away, and rushes off.]

SCENE V.-A neighboring forest. 

Night.  An old ruined
castle in the centre of the scene.

The band of ROBBERS encamped on the ground.

The ROBBERS singing.

To rob, to kill, to wench, to fight,
Our pastime is, and daily sport;
The gibbet claims us morn and night,
So let’s be jolly, time is short.

A merry life we lead, and free,
A life of endless fun;
Our couch is ’neath the greenwood tree,
Through wind and storm we gain our fee,
The moon we make our sun. 
Old Mercury is our patron true,
And a capital chap for helping us through.

To-day we make the abbot our host,
The farmer rich to-morrow;
And where we shall get our next day’s roast,
Gives us nor care nor sorrow.

And, when with Rhenish and rare Moselle
Our throats we have been oiling,
Our courage burns with a fiercer swell,
And we’re hand and glove with the Lord of Hell,
Who down in his flames is broiling.

For fathers slain the orphans’ cries,
The widowed mothers’ moan and wail,
Of brides bereaved the whimpering sighs,
Like music sweet, our ears regale.

Beneath the axe to see them writhe,
Bellow like calves, fall dead like flies;
Such bonny sights, and sounds so blithe,
With rapture fill our eats and eyes.

And when at last our death-knell rings-
The devil take that hour! 
Payment in full the hangman brings,
And off the stage we scour. 
On the road a glass of good liquor or so,
Then hip! hip! hip! and away we go!

SCHWEITZER.  The night is far advanced, and the captain has not yet returned.

RAZ.  And yet he promised to be back before the clock struck eight.

SCHWEITZER.  Should any harm have befallen him, comrades, wouldn’t we kindle fires! ay, and murder sucking babes?

SPIEGEL. (takes RAZMANN aside).  A word in your ear, Razmann!

SCHWARZ (to GRIMM).  Should we not send out scouts?

GRIMM.  Let him alone.  He no doubt has some feat in hand that will put us to shame.

SCHWEITZER.  Then you are out, by old Harry!  He did not part from us like one that had any masterpiece of roguery in view.  Have you forgotten what he said as he marched us across the heath?  “The fellow that takes so much as a turnip out of a field, if I know it, leaves his head behind him, as true as my name is Moor.”  We dare not plunder.

RAZ. (aside to SPIEGELBERG).  What are you driving at?  Speak plainer.

SPIEGEL.  Hush! hush!  I know not what sort of a notion you and I have of liberty, that we should toil under the yoke like bullocks, while we are making such wonderful fine speeches about independence.  I like it not.

SCHWEITZER (to GRIMM).  What crotchet has that swaggering booby got in his numskull, I wonder?

RAZ. (aside to SPIEGELBERG).  Is it the captain you mean?-

SPIEGEL.  Hush!  I tell you; hush!  He has got his eavesdroppers all around us.  Captain, did you say?  Who made him captain over us?  Has he not, in fact, usurped that title, which by right belongs to me?  What?  Is it for this that we stake our lives-that we endure all the splenetic caprices of fortunes-that we may in the end congratulate ourselves upon being the serfs of a slave?  Serfs!  When we might be princes?  By heaven!  Razmann, I could never brook it.

SCHWEITZER (overhearing him-to the others).  Yes-there’s a hero for you!  He is just the man to do mighty execution upon frogs with stones.  The very breath of his nostrils, when he sneezes, would blow you through the eye of a needle.

SPIEGEL. (to RAZMANN).  Yes-and for years I have been intent upon it.  There must be an alteration, Razmann.  If you are the man I always took you for-Razmann!  He is missing-he is almost given up-Razmann- methinks his hour is come.  What? does not the color so much as mount to your cheek when you hear the chimes of liberty ringing in your ears?  Have you not courage enough to take the hint?

RAZ.  Ha!  Satan!  What bait art thou spreading for my soul?

SPIEGEL.  Does it take?  Good! then follow me!  I have marked in what direction he slunk off.  Come along! a brace of pistols seldom fail; and then-we shall be the first to strangle sucking babes. (He endeavors to draw him of.)

SCHWEITZER (enraged, draws his sword).  Ha! caitiff!  I have overheard you!  You remind me, at the right moment, of the Bohemian forest!  Were not you the coward that began to quail when the cry arose, “the enemy is coming!” I then swore by my soul-(They fight, SPIEGELBERG is killed.) To the devil with thee, assassin!

ROBBERS (in agitation).  Murder! murder!-Schweitzer!-Spiegelberg!- Part them!

SCHWEITZER (throwing the sword on the body).  There let him rot!  Be still, my comrades!  Don’t let such a trifle disturb you.  The brute has always been inveterate against the captain and has not a single scar on his whole body.  Once more, be still.  Ha, the scoundrel!  He would stab a man behind his back-skulk and murder!  Is it for this that the hot sweat has poured down us in streams? that we may sneak out of the world at last like contemptible wretches?  The brute!  Is it for this that we have lived in fire and brimstone?  To perish at last like rats?

GRIMM.  But what the devil, comrade, were you after?  What were you quarreling about?  The captain will be furious.

SCHWEITZER.  Be that on my head.  And you, wretch (to RAZMANN) you were his accomplice, you!  Get out of my sight!  Schufterle was another of your kidney, but he has met his deserts in Switzerland-has been hanged, as the captain prophesied. (A shot is heard.)

SCHWARZ (jumping up).  Hark! a pistol shot! (Another shot is heard.) Another!  Hallo! the captain!

GRIMM.  Patience!  If it be he, there will be a third. (The third shot is heard.)

SCHWARZ.  ’Tis he!  ’Tis the captain!  Absent yourself awhile, Schweitzer-till we explain to him! (They fire.)

          Enter CHARLES VON MOOR and KOSINSKY.

SCHWEITZER (running to meet them).  Welcome, captain.  I have been somewhat choleric in your absence. (He conducts him to the corpse.) Be you judge between him and me.  He meant to waylay and assassinate you.

ROBBERS (in consternation).  What; the captain?

CHARLES (after fixing his eyes for some time upon the corpse, with a sudden burst of feeling).  Oh, incomprehensible finger of the avenging Nemesis!  Was it not he whose siren song seduced me to be what I am?  Let this sword be consecrated to the dark goddess of retribution!  That was not thy deed, Schweitzer.

SCHWEITZER.  By heaven, it was mine, though! and, as the devil lives, it is not the worst deed I have done in my time. (Turns away moodily.)

CHARLES (absorbed in thought).  I comprehend-Great Ruler in heaven- I comprehend.  The leaves fall from the trees, and my autumn is come.  Remove this object from my sight! (The corpse of SPIEGELBERG is carried out.)

GRIMM.  Give us your orders, captain!  What shall we do next?

CHARLES.  Soon-very soon-all will be accomplished.  Hand me my lute; I have lost myself since I have been there.  My lute, I say-I must nurse up my strength again.  Leave me!

ROBBERS.  ’Tis midnight, captain.

CHARLES.  They were only stage tears after all.  Let me bring to memory the song of the old Roman, that my slumbering genius may wake up again.  Hand me my lute.  Midnight, say you?

SCHWARZ.  Yes, and past, too!  Our eyes are as heavy as lead.  For three days we have not slept a wink.

CHARLES.  What? does balmy sleep visit the eyes of murderers?  Why doth it flee mine?  I never was a coward, nor a villain.  Lay yourselves to rest.  At day-break we march.

ROBBERS.  Good night, captain. (They stretch them selves on the ground and fall asleep.)

Profound silence.  CHARLES VON MOOR takes up his
guitar, and plays.

BRUTUS. 
Oh, be ye welcome, realms of peace and rest! 
Receive the last of all the sons of Rome! 
From dread Philippi’s field, where all the best
Fell bleeding in her cause, I wearied come. 
Cassius, no more!  And Rome now prostrate laid! 
My brethren all lie weltering in their gore! 
No refuge left but Hades’ gloomy shade;
No hope remains!-No world for Brutus more!

Cæsar. 
Who’s he that, with a hero’s lofty bearing,
Comes striding o’er yon mountain’s rocky bed? 
Unless my eyes deceive, that noble daring
Bespeaks the Roman warrior’s fearless tread. 
Whence, son of Tiber, do thy footsteps bend! 
Say, stands the seven-billed city firmly yet? 
No Cæsar there, to be the soldiers friend! 
Full oft has he that orphaned city wept.

BRUTUS. 
Ha! thou of three-and-twenty wounds!  Avaunt! 
Thou unblest shade, what calls thee back to light? 
Down with thee, down, to Pluto’s deepest haunt,
And shroud thy form in black, eternal night,
Proud mourner! triumph not to learn our fall! 
Phillippi’s altars reek with freedom’s blood? 
The bier of Brutus is Rome’s funeral pall;
He Minos seeks.  Hence to thy Stygian flood!

Cæsar. 
That death-stroke, Brutus, which thy weapon hurled! 
Thou, too, Brutus?-that thou shouldst be my foe! 
Oh, son!  It was thy father!  Son!  The world
Was thine by heritage!  Now proudly go,
Well mayst thou claim to be the chief in glory,
’Twas thy fell sword that pierced thy father’s heart! 
Now go-and at yon gates relate thy story-
Say Brutus claims to be the chief in glory,
’Twas his fell sword that pierced his father’s heart! 
Go-Now thou’rt told what staid me on this shore,
Grim ferryman, push off, and swiftly ply thine oar.

BRUTUS. 
Stay, father, stay!  Within the whole bright round
Of Sol’s diurnal course I knew but one
Who to compare with Cæsar could be found;
And that one, Cæsar, thou didst call thy son! 
’Twas only Cæsar could destroy a Rome;
Brutus alone that Cæsar could withstand-
Where Brutus lives, must Cæsar die!  Thy home
Be far from mine.  I’ll seek another land.

        [He lays down his guitar, and walks to and
        fro in deep meditation.]

Who will give me certainty!  All is so dark-a confused labyrinth-no outlet-no guiding star.  Were but all to end with this last gasp of breath.  To end, like an empty puppet-show.  But why then this burning thirst after happiness?  Wherefore this ideal of unattained perfection?  This looking to an hereafter for the fulfilment of our hopes?  If the paltry pressure of this paltry thing (putting a pistol to his head) makes the wise man and the fool-the coward and the brave-the noble and the villain equal?-the harmony which pervades the inanimate world is so divinely perfect-why, then, should there be such discord in the intellectual?  No! no! there must be something beyond, for I have not yet attained to happiness.

Think ye that I will tremble, spirits of my slaughtered victims?  No, I will not tremble. (Trembling violently.) The shrieks of your dying agonies-your black, convulsive features-your ghastly bleeding wounds- what are they all but links of one indissoluble chain of destiny, which hung upon the temperament of my father, the life’s blood of my mother, the humors of my nurses and tutors, and even upon the holiday pastimes of my childhood! (Shaking with horror.) Why has my Perillus made of me a brazen bull, whose burning entrails yearn after human flesh? (He lifts the pistol again to his head.)

Time and Eternity!-linked together by a single instant!  Fearful key, which locks behind me the prisonhouse of life, and opens before me the habitations of eternal night-tell me-oh, tell me-whither-whither wilt thou lead me?  Strange, unexplored land!  Humanity is unnerved at the fearful thought, the elasticity of our finite nature is paralyzed, and fancy, that wanton ape of the senses, juggles our credulity with appalling phantoms.  No! no! a man must be firm.  Be what thou wilt, thou undefined futurity, so I remain but true to myself.  Be what thou wilt, so I but take this inward self hence with me.  External forms are but the trappings of the man.  My heaven and my hell is within.

What if Thou shouldst doom me to be sole inhabitant of some burnt-out world which thou hast banished from thy sight, where darkness and never-ending desolation were all my prospect; then would my creative brain people the silent waste with its own images, and I should have eternity for leisure to unravel the complicated picture of universal wretchedness.  Or wilt thou make me pass through ever-repeated births and ever-changing scenes of misery, stage by stage-to annihilation?

[This and other passages will remind the reader of Cato’s soliloquy “It must be so, Plato; thou reasonest well.”  But the whole bears a strong resemblance to Hamlet’s “To be or not to be;” and some passages in Measure for Measure, Act iii, S.]

Can I not burst asunder the life-threads woven for me in another world as easily as I do these?  Thou mayest reduce me into nothing; but Thou canst not take from me this power. (He loads the pistol, and then suddenly pauses.) And shall I then rush into death from a coward fear of the ills of life?  Shall I yield to misery the palm of victory over myself?  No!  I will endure it! (He flings the pistol away.) Misery shall blunt its edge against my pride!  Be my destiny fulfilled! (It grows darker and darker.)

HERMANN (coming through the forest).  Hark! hark! the owl screeches horribly-the village clock strikes twelve.  Well, well-villainy is asleep-no listeners in these wilds. (He goes to the castle and knocks.) Come forth, thou man of sorrow! tenant of the miserable dungeon! thy meal awaits thee.

CHARLES (stepping gently back, unperceived).  What means this?

VOICE (from within the castle).  Who knocks?  Is it you, Hermann, my raven?

HERMANN.  Yes, ’tis Hermann, your raven.  Come to the grating and eat.  (Owls are screeching.) Your night companions make a horrid noise, old man!  Do you relish your repast?

VOICE.  Yes-I was very hungry.  Thanks to thee, thou merciful sender of ravens, for this thy bread in the wilderness!  And how is my dear child, Hermann?

HERMANN.  Hush!-hark!-A noise like snoring!  Don’t you hear something?

VOICE.  What?  Do you hear anything?

HERMANN.  ’Tis the whistling of the wind through the crannies of the tower-a serenading which makes one’s teeth chatter, and one’s nails turn blue.  Hark! tis there again.  I still fancy I hear snoring.  You have company, old man.  Ugh! ugh! ugh!

VOICE.  Do you see anything?

HERMANN.  Farewell! farewell! this is a fearful place.  Go down into your bole,-thy deliverer, thy avenger is above.  Oh! accursed son! (Is about to fly.)

CHARLES (stepping forth with horror).  Stand!

HERMANN (screaming).  Oh, me!

   [In the acting edition Hermann, instead of this, says,-
   ’Tis one of his spies for certain, I have lost all fear (draws his
   sword).  Villain, defend yourself!  You have a man before you.]

MOOR.  I’ll have an answer (strikes the sword out of his hand).  What boots this childish sword-play?  Didst thou not speak of vengeance?  Vengeance belongs especially to me-of all men on earth.  Who dares interfere with my vocation?

   HERMANN (starts back in affright).  By heaven!  That man was not
   born of woman.  His touch withers like the stroke of death.

   VOICE.  Alas, Hermann! to whom are you speaking?

   MOOR.  What! still those sounds?  What is going on there? (Runs
   towards the tower.) Some horrible mystery, no doubt, lies concealed
   in that tower.  This sword shall bring it to light.

HERMANN (comes forward trembling).  Terrible stranger! art thou the demon of this fearful desert-or perhaps ’one of the ministers of that unfathonable retribution who make their circuit in this lower world, and take account of all the deeds of darkness?  Oh! if thou art, be welcome to this tower of horrors!

MOOR.  Well guessed, wanderer of the night!  You have divined my function.  Exterminating Angel is my name; but I am flesh and blood like thee.  Is this some miserable wretch, cast out of men, and buried in this dungeon?  I will loosen his chains.  Once more, speak! thou voice of terror Where is the door?

   HERMANN.  As soon could Satan force the gates of heaven as thou
   that door.  Retire, thou man of might!  The genius of the wicked is
   beyond the ordinary powers of man.

MOOR.  But not the craft of robbers. (He takes some pass-keys from his pocket.) For once I thank heaven I’ve learned that craft!  These keys would mock hell’s foresight. (He takes a key, and opens the gate of the tower.  An old man comes from below emaciated like a skeleton.  MOOR springs back with of right.) Horrible spectre! my father!

CHARLES.  Stand!  I say.

HERMANN.  Woe! woe! woe! now all is discovered!

CHARLES.  Speak!  Who art thou?  What brought thee here?  Speak!

HERMANN.  Mercy, mercy! gracious sir!  Hear but one word before you kill me.

CHARLES (drawing his sword).  What am I to hear?

HERMANN.  ’Tis true, he forbade me at the peril of my life-but I could not help it-I dare not do otherwise-a God in heaven-your own venerable father there-pity for him overcame me.  Kill me, if you will!

CHARLES.  There’s some mystery here-Out with it!  Speak!  I must know all.

VOICE (from the castle).  Woe! woe!  Is it you, Hermann, that are speaking?  To whom are you speaking, Hermann?

CHARLES.  Some one else down there?  What is the meaning of all this?  (Runs towards the castle.) It is some prisoner whom mankind have cast off!  I will loosen his chains.  Voice!  Speak!  Where is the door?

HERMANN.  Oh, have mercy, sir-seek no further, I entreat-for mercy’s sake desist! (He stops his way.)

CHARLES.  Locks, bolts, and bars, away!  It must come out.  Now, for the first time, come to my aid, thief-craft! (He opens the grated iron door with, housebreaking tools.  An OLD MAN, reduced to a skeleton, comes up from below.)

THE OLD MAN.  Mercy on a poor wretch!  Mercy!

CHARLES (starts back in terror).  That is my father’s voice!

OLD MOOR.  I thank thee, merciful Heaven!  The hour of deliverance has arrived.

CHARLES.  Shade of the aged Moor! what has disturbed thee in thy grave?  Has thy soul left this earth charged with some foul crime that bars the gates of Paradise against thee?  Say?-I will have masses read, to send thy wandering spirit to its home.  Hast thou buried in the earth the gold of widows and orphans, that thou art driven to wander howling through the midnight hour?  I will snatch the hidden treasure from the clutches of the infernal dragon, though he should vomit a thousand redhot flames upon me, and gnash his sharp teeth against my sword.  Or comest thou, at my request, to reveal to me the mysteries of eternity?  Speak, thou! speak!  I am not the man to blanch with fear!

OLD MOOR.  I am not a spirit.  Touch me-I live but oh! a life indeed of misery!

CHARLES.  What! hast thou not been buried?

OLD MOOR.  I was buried-that is to say, a dead dog lies in the vault of my ancestors, and I have been pining for three long moons in this dark and loathsome dungeon, where no sunbeam shines, no warm breeze penetrates, where no friend is seen, where the hoarse raven croaks and owls screech their midnight concert.

CHARLES.  Heaven and earth!  Who has done this?

OLD MOOR.  Curse him not!  ’Tis my son, Francis, who did this.

CHARLES.  Francis?  Francis?  Oh, eternal chaos!

OLD MOOR.  If thou art a man, and hast a human heart-oh! my unknown deliverer-then listen to a father’s miseries which his own sons have heaped upon him.  For three long moons I have moaned my pitiful tale to these flinty walls-but all my answer was an empty echo, that seemed to mock my wailings.  Therefore, if thou art a man, and hast a human heart-

CHARLES.  That appeal might move even wild beasts to pity.

OLD MOOR.  I lay upon a sick bed, and had scarcely begun to recover a little strength, after a dangerous illness, when a man was brought to me, who pretended that my first-born had fallen in battle.  He brought a sword stained with his blood, and his last farewell-and said that my curse had driven him into battle, and death, and despair.

CHARLES (turning away in violent agitation).  The light breaks in upon me!

OLD MOOR.  Hear me on!  I fainted at the dreadful news.  They must have thought me dead; for, when I recovered my senses, I was already in my coffin, shrouded like a corpse.  I scratched against the lid.  It was opened-’twas in the dead of night-my son Francis stood before me- “What!” said he, with a tremendous voice, “wilt thou then live forever?” -and with this he slammed-to the lid of the coffin.  The thunder of these words bereft me of my senses; when I awoke again, I felt that the coffin was in motion, and being borne on wheels.  At last it was opened -I found myself at the entrance of this dungeon-my son stood before me, and the man, too, who had brought me the bloody sword from Charles.  I fell at my son’s feet, and ten times I embraced his knees, and wept, and conjured, and supplicated, but the supplications of a father reached not his flinty heart.  “Down with the old carcass!” said he, with a voice of thunder, “he has lived too long;”-and I was thrust down without mercy, and my son Francis closed the door upon Me.

CHARLES.  Impossible!-impossible!  Your memory or senses deceive you.

OLD MOOR.  Oh, that it were so!  But hear me on, and restrain your rage!  There I lay for twenty hours, and not a soul cared for my misery.  No human footstep treads this solitary wild, for ’tis commonly believed that the ghosts of my ancestors drag clanking chains through these ruins, and chant their funeral dirge at the hour of midnight.  At last I heard the door creak again on its hinges; this man opened it, and brought me bread and water.  He told me that I had been condemned to die of hunger, and that his life was in danger should it be discovered that he fed me.  Thus has my miserable existence been till now sustained-but the unceasing cold-the foul air of my filthy dungeon-my incurable grief-have exhausted my strength, and reduced my body to a skeleton.  A thousand times have I implored heaven, with tears, to put an end to my sufferings-but doubtless the measure of my punishment is not fulfilled,-or some happiness must be yet in store for me, for which he deigns thus miraculously to preserve me.  But I suffer justly-my Charles! my Charles!-and before there was even a gray hair on his Head!

CHARLES.  Enough!  Rise! ye stocks, ye lumps of ice! ye lazy unfeeling sleepers!  Up! will none of you awake? (He fires a pistol over their heads.)

THE ROBBERS (starting up).  Ho! hallo! hallo! what is the matter?

CHARLES.  Has not that tale shaken you out of your sleep?  ’Tis enough to break the sleep eternal!  See here, see here!  The laws of the world have become mere dice-play; the bonds of nature are burst asunder; the Demon of Discord has broken loose, and stalks abroad triumphant! the Son has slain his Father!

THE ROBBERS.  What does the captain say?

CHARLES.  Slain! did I say?  No, that is too mild a term!  A son has a thousand-fold broken his own father on the wheel,-impaled, racked, flayed him alive!-but all these words are too feeble to express what would make sin itself blush and cannibals shudder.  For ages, no devil ever conceived a deed so horrible.  His own father!-but see, see him! he has fainted away!  His own father-the son-into this dungeon-cold- naked-hungry-athirst-Oh! see, I pray you, see!-’tis my own father, in very truth it is.

THE ROBBERS (come running and surround the old man).  Your father?  Yours?

SCHWEITZER (approaches him reverently, and falls on his knees before him).  Father of my captain! let me kiss thy feet!  My dagger is at thy command.

CHARLES.  Revenge, revenge, revenge! thou horribly injured, profaned old man!  Thus, from this moment, and forever, I rend in twain all ties of fraternity. (He rends his garment from top to bottom.) Here, in the face of heaven, I curse him-curse every drop of blood which flows in his veins!  Hear me, O moon and stars! and thou black canopy of night, that lookest down upon this horror!  Hear me, thrice terrible avenger.  Thou who reignest above yon pallid orb, who sittest an avenger and a judge above the stars, and dartest thy fiery bolts through darkness on the head of guilt!  Behold me on my knees behold me raise this hand aloft in the gloom of night-and hear my oath-and may nature vomit me forth as some horrible abortion from out the circle of her works if I break that oath!  Here I swear that I will never more greet the light of day, till the blood of that foul parricide, spilt upon this stone, reeks in misty vapor towards heaven. (He rises.)

ROBBERS.  ’Tis a deed of hell!  After this, who shall call us villains?  No! by all the dragons of darkness we never have done anything half so horrible.

CHARLES.  True! and by all the fearful groans of those whom your daggers have despatched-of those who on that terrible day were consumed by fire, or crushed by the falling tower-no thought of murder or rapine shall be harbored in your breast, till every man among you has dyed his garments scarlet in this monster’s blood.  It never, I should think, entered your dreams, that it would fall to your lot to execute the great decrees of heaven?  The tangled web of our destiny is unravelled!  To-day, to-day, an invisible power has ennobled our craft!  Worship Him who has called you to this high destiny, who has conducted you hither, and deemed ye worthy to be the terrible angels of his inscrutable judgments!  Uncover your heads!  Bow down and kiss the dust, and rise up sanctified. (They kneel.)

SCHWEITZER.  Now, captain, issue your commands!  What shall we do?

CHARLES.  Rise, Schweitzer! and touch these sacred locks! (Leading him to his father, and putting a lock of hair in his hand.) Do you remember still, how you, cleft the skull of that Bohemian trooper, at the moment his sabre was descending on my head, and I had sunk down on my knees, breathless and exhausted?  ’Twas then I promised thee a reward that should be right royal.  But to this hour I have never been able to discharge that debt.

SCHWEITZER.  You swore that much to me, ’tis true; but let me call you my debtor forever!

CHARLES.  No; now will I repay thee, Schweitzer!  No mortal has yet been honored as thou shalt be.  I appoint thee avenger of my father’s wrongs!  (SCHWEITZER rises.)

SCHWEITZER.  Mighty captain! this day you have, for the first time, made me truly proud!  Say, when, where, how shall I smite him?

CHARLES.  The minutes are sacred.  You must hasten to the work.  Choose the best of the band, and lead them straight to the count’s castle!  Drag him from his bed, though he sleep, or he folded in the arms of pleasure!  Drag him from the table, though he be drunk!  Tear him from the crucifix, though he lie on his knees before it!  But mark my words- I charge thee, deliver him into my hands alive!  I will hew that man to pieces, and feed the hungry vultures with his flesh, who dares but graze his skin, or injure a single hair of his head!  I must have him whole.  Bring him to me whole and alive, and a million shall be thy reward.  I’ll plunder kings at the risk of my life, but thou shalt have it, and go free as air.  Thou hast my purpose-see it done!

SCHWEITZER.  Enough, captain! here is my hand upon it.  You shall see both of us, or neither.  Come, Schweitzer’s destroying angels, follow me! (Exit with a troop.)

CHARLES.  The rest of you disperse in the forest-I remain here.