WERNER; OR, THE INHERITANCE: A TRAGEDY.

George Gordon, Lord Byron

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  • ACT I.
  • Scene I.
  • ACT II.
  • Scene I.
  • Scene II.
  • ACT III.
  • Scene I.
  • Scene II.
  • Scene III.
  • Scene IV.
  • ACT IV.
  • Scene I.
  • ACT V.
  • Scene I.
  • Scene II.
  • TO
    THE ILLUSTRIOUS GOETHE,
    BY ONE OF HIS HUMBLEST ADMIRERS,
    THIS TRAGEDY
    IS DEDICATED.

    DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

    MEN.
    MEN.
    Werner.
    Ulric.
    Stralenheim.
    Idenstein.
    Gabor.
    Fritz.
    Henrick.
    Eric.
    Arnheim.
    Meister.
    Rodolph.
    Ludwig.
    WOMEN.
    Josephine.
    Ida Stralenheim.

                        Scene—Partly on the Frontier of Silesia, and partly in Siegendorf Castle, near Prague.

                        Time—The Close of the Thirty Years' War .

    ACT I.

    Scene I.

    —The Hall of a decayed Palace near a small Town on the Northern Frontier of Silesia—the Night tempestuous.

    Werner and Josephine, his Wife.

    Jos.
    My love, be calmer!

    Wer.
                        I am calm.

    Jos.
                                            To me—
    Yes, but not to thyself: thy pace is hurried,
    And no one walks a chamber like to ours,
    With steps like thine, when his heart is at rest.
    Were it a garden, I should deem thee happy,
    And stepping with the bee from flower to flower;
    But here!

    Wer.
                                            'Tis chill; the tapestry lets through
    The wind to which it waves: my blood is frozen.

    Jos.
    Ah, no!

    Wer. (smiling).
                        Why! wouldst thou have it so?

    Jos.
                                            I would
    Have it a healthful current.

    Wer.
                                            Let it flow
    Until 'tis spilt or checked—how soon, I care not.

    Jos.
    And am I nothing in thy heart?

    Wer.
                                            All-all.

    Jos.
    Then canst thou wish for that which must break mine?

    Wer. (approaching her slowly).
    But for thee I had been—no matter what—
    But much of good and evil; what I am,
    Thou knowest; what I might or should have been,
    Thou knowest not: but still I love thee, nor
    Shall aught divide us.
                                            [Werner walks on abruptly, and then approaches Josephine.

                                            The storm of the night,
    Perhaps affects me; I'm a thing of feelings,
    And have of late been sickly, as, alas!
    Thou know'st by sufferings more than mine, my Love!
    In watching me.

    Jos.
                                            To see thee well is much—
    To see thee happy—

    Wer.
                                            Where hast thou seen such?
    Let me be wretched with the rest!

    Jos.
                                            But think
    How many in this hour of tempest shiver
    Beneath the biting wind and heavy rain,
    Whose every drop bows them down nearer earth,
    Which hath no chamber for them save beneath
    Her surface.

    Wer.
                                            And that's not the worst: who cares
    For chambers? rest is all. The wretches whom
    Thou namest—aye, the wind howls round them, and
    The dull and dropping rain saps in their bones
    The creeping marrow. I have been a soldier,
    A hunter, and a traveller, and am
    A beggar, and should know the thing thou talk'st of.

    Jos.
    And art thou not now sheltered from them all?

    Wer.
    Yes. And from these alone.

    Jos.
                                            And that is something.

    Wer.
    True—to a peasant.

    Jos.
                                            Should the nobly born
    Be thankless for that refuge which their habits
    Of early delicacy render more

    Needful than to the peasant, when the ebb
    Of fortune leaves them on the shoals of life?

    Wer.
    It is not that, thou know'st it is not: we
    Have borne all this, I'll not say patiently,
    Except in thee—but we have borne it.

    Jos.
                                            Well?

    Wer.
    Something beyond our outward sufferings (though
    These were enough to gnaw into our souls)
    Hath stung me oft, and, more than ever, now.
    When, but for this untoward sickness, which
    Seized me upon this desolate frontier, and
    Hath wasted, not alone my strength, but means,
    And leaves us—no! this is beyond me!—but
    For this I had been happy—thou been happy—
    The splendour of my rank sustained—my name—
    My father's name—been still upheld; and, more
    Than those—

    Jos. (abruptly).
                                            My son—our son—our Ulric,
    Been clasped again in these long-empty arms,
    And all a mother's hunger satisfied.
    Twelve years! he was but eight then:—beautiful
    He was, and beautiful he must be now,
    My Ulric! my adored!

    Wer.
                                            I have been full oft
    The chase of Fortune; now she hath o'ertaken
    My spirit where it cannot turn at bay,—
    Sick, poor, and lonely.

    Jos.
                                            Lonely! my dear husband?

    Wer.
    Or worse—involving all I love, in this
    Far worse than solitude. Alone, I had died,
    And all been over in a nameless grave.

    Jos.
    And I had not outlived thee; but pray take
    Comfort! We have struggled long; and they who strive
    With Fortune win or weary her at last,
    So that they find the goal or cease to feel
    Further. Take comfort,—we shall find our boy.

    Wer.
    We were in sight of him, of every thing
    Which could bring compensation for past sorrow—
    And to be baffled thus!

    Jos.
                                            We are not baffled.

    Wer.
    Are we not penniless?

    Jos.
                                            We ne'er were wealthy.

    Wer.
    But I was born to wealth, and rank, and power;
    Enjoyed them, loved them, and, alas! abused them,
    And forfeited them by my father's wrath,
    In my o'er-fervent youth: but for the abuse
    Long-sufferings have atoned. My father's death
    Left the path open, yet not without snares.
    This cold and creeping kinsman, who so long
    Kept his eye on me, as the snake upon
    The fluttering bird, hath ere this time outstept me,
    Become the master of my rights, and lord
    Of that which lifts him up to princes in
    Dominion and domain.

    Jos.
                                            Who knows? our son
    May have returned back to his grandsire, and
    Even now uphold thy rights for thee?

    Wer.
                                            'Tis hopeless.
    Since his strange disappearance from my father's,
    Entailing, as it were, my sins upon
    Himself, no tidings have revealed his course.
    I parted with him to his grandsire, on
    The promise that his anger would stop short
    Of the third generation; but Heaven seems
    To claim her stern prerogative, and visit
    Upon my boy his father's faults and follies.

    Jos.
    I must hope better still,—at least we have yet
    Baffled the long pursuit of Stralenheim.

    Wer.
    We should have done, but for this fatal sickness;—
    More fatal than a mortal malady,
    Because it takes not life, but life's sole solace:
    Even now I feel my spirit girt about
    By the snares of this avaricious fiend:—
    How do I know he hath not tracked us here?

    Jos.
    He does not know thy person; and his spies,
    Who so long watched thee, have been left at Hamburgh.
    Our unexpected journey, and this change
    Of name, leaves all discovery far behind:
    None hold us here for aught save what we seem.

    Wer.
    Save what we seem! save what we are—sick beggars,

    Even to our very hopes.—Ha! ha!

    Jos.
                                            Alas!
    That bitter laugh!

    Wer.
                                            Who would read in this form
    The high soul of the son of a long line?
    Who, in this garb, the heir of princely lands?
    Who, in this sunken, sickly eye, the pride
    Of rank and ancestry? In this worn cheek
    And famine-hollowed brow, the Lord of halls
    Which daily feast a thousand vassals?

    Jos.
                                            You
    Pondered not thus upon these worldly things,
    My Werner! when you deigned to choose for bride
    The foreign daughter of a wandering exile.

    Wer.
    An exile's daughter with an outcast son,
    Were a fit marriage: but I still had hopes
    To lift thee to the state we both were born for.
    Your father's house was noble, though decayed;
    And worthy by its birth to match with ours.

    Jos.
    Your father did not think so, though 'twas noble;
    But had my birth been all my claim to match
    With thee, I should have deemed it what it is.

    Wer.
    And what is that in thine eyes?

    Jos.
                                            All which it
    Has done in our behalf,—nothing.

    Wer.
                                            How,—nothing?

    Jos.
    Or worse; for it has been a canker in
    Thy heart from the beginning: but for this,
    We had not felt our poverty but as
    Millions of myriads feel it—cheerfully;
    But for these phantoms of thy feudal fathers,
    Thou mightst have earned thy bread, as thousands earn it;
    Or, if that seem too humble, tried by commerce,
    Or other civic means, to amend thy fortunes.

    Wer. (ironically).
    And been an Hanseatic burgher? Excellent!

    Jos.
    Whate'er thou mightest have been, to me thou art
    What no state high or low can ever change,
    My heart's first choice;—which chose thee, knowing neither

    Thy birth, thy hopes, thy pride; nought, save thy sorrows:
    While they last, let me comfort or divide them:
    When they end—let mine end with them, or thee!

    Wer.
    My better angel! Such I have ever found thee;
    This rashness, or this weakness of my temper,
    Ne'er raised a thought to injure thee or thine.
    Thou didst not mar my fortunes: my own nature
    In youth was such as to unmake an empire,
    Had such been my inheritance; but now,
    Chastened, subdued, out-worn, and taught to know
    Myself,—to lose this for our son and thee!
    Trust me, when, in my two-and-twentieth spring,
    My father barred me from my father's house,
    The last sole scion of a thousand sires
    (For I was then the last), it hurt me less
    Than to behold my boy and my boy's mother
    Excluded in their innocence from what
    My faults deserved—exclusion; although then
    My passions were all living serpents, and
    Twined like the Gorgon's round me.
                                            [A loud knocking is heard.

    Jos.
                        Hark!

    Wer.
                                            A knocking!

    Jos.
    Who can it be at this lone hour? We have
    Few visitors.

    Wer.
                                            And poverty hath none,
    Save those who come to make it poorer still.
    Well—I am prepared.
                                            [Werner puts his hand into his bosom, as if to search for some weapon.

    Jos.
                                            Oh! do not look so. I
    Will to the door. It cannot be of import
    In this lone spot of wintry desolation:—
    The very desert saves man from mankind.
                                            [She goes to the door.

    Enter Idenstein.

    Iden.
    A fair good evening to my fair hostess
    And worthy—What's your name, my friend?

    Wer.
                                            Are you
    Not afraid to demand it?

    Iden.
                                            Not afraid?
    Egad! I am afraid. You look as if
    I asked for something better than your name,
    By the face you put on it.

    Wer.
                                            Better, sir!

    Iden.
    Better or worse, like matrimony: what
    Shall I say more? You have been a guest this month
    Here in the prince's palace—(to be sure,
    His Highness had resigned it to the ghosts
    And rats these twelve years—but 'tis still a palace)—
    I say you have been our lodger, and as yet
    We do not know your name.

    Wer.
                                            My name is Werner.

    Iden.
    A goodly name, a very worthy name,
    As e'er was gilt upon a trader's board:
    I have a cousin in the lazaretto
    Of Hamburgh, who has got a wife who bore
    The same. He is an officer of trust,
    Surgeon's assistant (hoping to be surgeon),
    And has done miracles i' the way of business.
    Perhaps you are related to my relative?

    Wer.
    To yours?

    Jos.
                                            Oh, yes; we are, but distantly.

    (Aside to Werner.)
    Cannot you humour the dull gossip till
    We learn his purpose?

    Iden.
                                            Well, I'm glad of that;
    I thought so all along, such natural yearnings

    Played round my heart:—blood is not water, cousin;
    And so let's have some wine, and drink unto
    Our better acquaintance: relatives should be
    Friends.

    Wer.
                                            You appear to have drunk enough already;
    And if you have not, I've no wine to offer,
    Else it were yours: but this you know, or should know:
    You see I am poor, and sick, and will not see
    That I would be alone; but to your business!
    What brings you here?

    Iden.
                                            Why, what should bring me here?

    Wer.
    I know not, though I think that I could guess
    That which will send you hence.

    Jos. (aside).
                                            Patience, dear Werner!

    Iden.
    You don't know what has happened, then?

    Jos.
                                            How should we?

    Iden.
    The river has o'erflowed.

    Jos.
                                            Alas! we have known
    That to our sorrow for these five days; since
    It keeps us here.

    Iden.
                                            But what you don't know is,
    That a great personage, who fain would cross
    Against the stream and three postilions' wishes,
    Is drowned below the ford, with five post-horses,
    A monkey, and a mastiff—and a valet.

    Jos.
    Poor creatures! are you sure?

    Iden.
                                            Yes, of the monkey,
    And the valet, and the cattle; but as yet
    We know not if his Excellency's dead
    Or no; your noblemen are hard to drown,
    As it is fit that men in office should be;
    But what is certain is, that he has swallowed
    Enough of the Oder to have burst two peasants;
    And now a Saxon and Hungarian traveller,
    Who, at their proper peril, snatched him from

    The whirling river, have sent on to crave
    A lodging, or a grave, according as
    It may turn out with the live or dead body.

    Jos.
    And where will you receive him? here, I hope,
    If we can be of service—say the word.

    Iden.
    Here? no; but in the Prince's own apartment,
    As fits a noble guest:—'tis damp, no doubt,
    Not having been inhabited these twelve years;
    But then he comes from a much damper place,
    So scarcely will catch cold in't, if he be
    Still liable to cold—and if not, why
    He'll be worse lodged to-morrow: ne'ertheless,
    I have ordered fire and all appliances
    To be got ready for the worst—that is,
    In case he should survive,

    Jos.
                                            Poor gentleman!
    I hope he will, with all my heart.

    Wer.
                                            Intendant,
    Have you not learned his name?
                                            (Aside to his wife.)
    My Josephine,
    Retire: I'll sift this fool.
                                            [Exit Josephine.

    Iden.
                                            His name? oh Lord!
    Who knows if he hath now a name or no?
    'Tis time enough to ask it when he's able
    To give an answer; or if not, to put
    His heir's upon his epitaph. Methought
    Just now you chid me for demanding names?

    Wer.
    True, true, I did so: you say well and wisely.

    Enter Gabor.

    Gab.
    If I intrude, I crave—

    Iden.
                                            Oh, no intrusion!
    This is the palace; this a stranger like
    Yourself; I pray you make yourself at home:
    But where's his Excellency? and how fares he?

    Gab.
    Wetly and wearily, but out of peril:
    He paused to change his garments in a cottage

    (Where I doffed mine for these, and came on hither),
    And has almost recovered from his drenching.
    He will be here anon.

    Iden.
                                            What ho, there! bustle!
    Without there, Herman, Weilburg, Peter, Conrad!
                                            [Gives directions to different servants who enter.

    A nobleman sleeps here to-night—see that
    All is in order in the damask chamber—
    Keep up the stove—I will myself to the cellar—
    And Madame Idenstein (my consort, stranger,)
    Shall furnish forth the bed-apparel; for,
    To say the truth, they are marvellous scant of this
    Within the palace precincts, since his Highness
    Left it some dozen years ago. And then
    His Excellency will sup, doubtless?

    Gab.
                                            Faith!
    I cannot tell; but I should think the pillow
    Would please him better than the table, after
    His soaking in your river: but for fear
    Your viands should be thrown away, I mean
    To sup myself, and have a friend without
    Who will do honour to your good cheer with
    A traveller's appetite.

    Iden.
                                            But are you sure
    His Excellency—But his name: what is it?

    Gab.
    I do not know.

    Iden.
                                            And yet you saved his life.

    Gab.
    I helped my friend to do so.

    Iden.
                                            Well, that's strange,
    To save a man's life whom you do not know.

    Gab.
    Not so; for there are some I know so well,
    I scarce should give myself the trouble.

    Iden.
                                            Pray,
    Good friend, and who may you be?

    Gab.
                                            By my family,
    Hungarian.

    Iden.
                        Which is called?

    Gab.
                                            It matters little.

    Iden. (aside).
    I think that all the world are grown anonymous,
    Since no one cares to tell me what he's called!

    Pray, has his Excellency a large suite?

    Gab.
                                            Sufficient.

    Iden.
    How many?

    Gab.
                                            I did not count them.
    We came up by mere accident, and just
    In time to drag him through his carriage window.

    Iden.
    Well, what would I give to save a great man!
    No doubt you'll have a swingeing sum as recompense.

    Gab.
    Perhaps.

    Iden.
                                            Now, how much do you reckon on?

    Gab.
    I have not yet put up myself to sale:
    In the mean time, my best reward would be
    A glass of your Hockcheimer—a green glass,
    Wreathed with rich grapes and Bacchanal devices,
    O'erflowing with the oldest of your vintage:
    For which I promise you, in case you e'er
    Run hazard of being drowned, (although I own
    It seems, of all deaths, the least likely for you,)
    I'll pull you out for nothing. Quick, my friend,
    And think, for every bumper I shall quaff,
    A wave the less may roll above your head.

    Iden. (aside).
    I don't much like this fellow—close and dry
    He seems,—two things which suit me not; however,
    Wine he shall have; if that unlocks him not,
    I shall not sleep to-night for curiosity.
                                            [Exit Idenstein.

    Gab. (to Werner).
    This master of the ceremonies is
    The intendant of the palace, I presume:
    'Tis a fine building, but decayed.

    Wer.
                                            The apartment
    Designed for him you rescued will be found
    In fitter order for a sickly guest.

    Gab.
    I wonder then you occupied it not,
    For you seem delicate in health.

    Wer. (quickly).
                        Sir!

    Gab.
                                            Pray
    Excuse me: have I said aught to offend you?

    Wer.
    Nothing: but we are strangers to each other.

    Gab.
    And that's the reason I would have us less so:
    I thought our bustling guest without had said
    You were a chance and passing guest, the counterpart
    Of me and my companions.

    Wer.
                                            Very true.

    Gab.
    Then, as we never met before, and never,
    It may be, may again encounter, why,
    I thought to cheer up this old dungeon here
    (At least to me) by asking you to share
    The fare of my companions and myself.

    Wer.
    Pray, pardon me; my health—

    Gab.
                                            Even as you please.
    I have been a soldier, and perhaps am blunt
    In bearing.

    Wer.
                                            I have also served, and can
    Requite a soldier's greeting.

    Gab.
                                            In what service?
    The Imperial?

    Wer. (quickly, and then interrupting himself).
                                            I commanded—no—I mean
    I served; but it is many years ago,
    When first Bohemia raised her banner 'gainst
    The Austrian.

    Gab.
                                            Well, that's over now, and peace
    Has turned some thousand gallant hearts adrift
    To live as they best may: and, to say truth,
    Some take the shortest.

    Wer.
                        What is that?

    Gab.
                                            Whate'er
    They lay their hands on. All Silesia and
    Lusatia's woods are tenanted by bands
    Of the late troops, who levy on the country
    Their maintenance: the Chatelains must keep
    Their castle walls—beyond them 'tis but doubtful
    Travel for your rich Count or full-blown Baron.
    My comfort is that, wander where I may,

    I've little left to lose now.

    Wer.
                                            And I—nothing.

    Gab.
    That's harder still. You say you were a soldier.

    Wer.
    I was.

    Gab.
                                            You look one still. All soldiers are
    Or should be comrades, even though enemies.
    Our swords when drawn must cross, our engines aim
    (While levelled) at each other's hearts; but when
    A truce, a peace, or what you will, remits
    The steel into its scabbard, and lets sleep
    The spark which lights the matchlock, we are brethren.
    You are poor and sickly—I am not rich, but healthy;
    I want for nothing which I cannot want;
    You seem devoid of this—wilt share it?
                                            [Gabor pulls out his purse.

    Wer.
                                            Who
    Told you I was a beggar?

    Gab.
                                            You yourself,
    In saying you were a soldier during peace-time.

    Wer. (looking at him with suspicion).
    You know me not.

    Gab.
                                            I know no man, not even
    Myself: how should I then know one I ne'er
    Beheld till half an hour since?

    Wer.
                                            Sir, I thank you.
    Your offer's noble were it to a friend,
    And not unkind as to an unknown stranger,
    Though scarcely prudent; but no less I thank you.
    I am a beggar in all save his trade;
    And when I beg of any one, it shall be
    Of him who was the first to offer what
    Few can obtain by asking. Pardon me.
                                            [Exit Werner.

    Gab. (solus).
    A goodly fellow by his looks, though worn
    As most good fellows are, by pain or pleasure,
    Which tear life out of us before our time;
    I scarce know which most quickly: but he seems
    To have seen better days, as who has not
    Who has seen yesterday?—But here approaches
    Our sage intendant, with the wine: however,
    For the cup's sake I'll bear the cupbearer.

    Enter Idenstein.

    Iden.
    'Tis here! the supernaculum! twenty years
    Of age, if 'tis a day.

    Gab.
                                            Which epoch makes
    Young women and old wine; and 'tis great pity,
    Of two such excellent things, increase of years,
    Which still improves the one, should spoil the other.
    Fill full—Here's to our hostess!—your fair wife!
                                            [Takes the glass.

    Iden.
    Fair!—Well, I trust your taste in wine is equal
    To that you show for beauty; but I pledge you
    Nevertheless.

    Gab.
                                            Is not the lovely woman
    I met in the adjacent hall, who, with
    An air, and port, and eye, which would have better
    Beseemed this palace in its brightest days
    (Though in a garb adapted to its present
    Abandonment), returned my salutation—
    Is not the same your spouse?

    Iden.
                                            I would she were!
    But you're mistaken:—that's the stranger's wife.

    Gab.
    And by her aspect she might be a Prince's;
    Though time hath touched her too, she still retains
    Much beauty, and more majesty.

    Iden.
                                            And that
    Is more than I can say for Madame Idenstein,
    At least in beauty: as for majesty,
    She has some of its properties which might
    Be spared—but never mind!

    Gab.
                                            I don't. But who
    May be this stranger? He too hath a bearing
    Above his outward fortunes.

    Iden.
                                            There I differ.
    He's poor as Job, and not so patient; but
    Who he may be, or what, or aught of him,

    Except his name (and that I only learned
    To-night), I know not.

    Gab.
                                            But how came he here?

    Iden.
    In a most miserable old caleche,
    About a month since, and immediately
    Fell sick, almost to death. He should have died.

    Gab.
    Tender and true!—but why?

    Iden.
                                            Why, what is life
    Without a living? He has not a stiver.

    Gab.
    In that case, I much wonder that a person
    Of your apparent prudence should admit
    Coests so forlorn into this noble mansion.

    Iden.
    That's true: but pity, as you know, does make
    One's heart commit these follies; and besides,
    They had some valuables left at that time,
    Which paid their way up to the present hour;
    And so I thought they might as well be lodged
    Here as at the small tavern, and I gave them
    The run of some of the oldest palace rooms.
    They served to air them, at the least as long
    As they could pay for firewood.

    Gab.
                        Poor souls!

    Iden.
                                            Aye,
    Exceeding poor.

    Gab.
                                            And yet unused to poverty,
    If I mistake not. Whither were they going?

    Iden.
    Oh! Heaven knows where, unless to Heaven itself.
    Some days ago that looked the likeliest journey
    For Werner.

    Gab.
                                            Werner! I have heard the name.
    But it may be a feigned one.

    Iden.
                                            Like enough!
    But hark! a noise of wheels and voices, and
    A blaze of torches from without. As sure
    As destiny, his Excellency's come.
    I must be at my post; will you not join me,
    To help him from his carriage, and present
    Your humble duty at the door?

    Gab.
                                            I dragged him

    From out that carriage when he would have given
    His barony or county to repel
    The rushing river from his gurgling throat.
    He has valets now enough: they stood aloof then,
    Shaking their dripping ears upon the shore,
    All roaring "Help!" but offering none; and as
    For duty (as you call it)—I did mine then,
    Now do yours. Hence, and bow and cringe him here!

    Iden.
    I cringe!—but I shall lose the opportunity—
    Plague take it! he'll be here, and I not there!
                                            [Exit Idenstein hashily.

    Re-enter Werner.


                                            Wer. (to himself).

    I heard a noise of wheels and voices. How
    All sounds now jar me!
                                            [Perceiving Gabor.

                                            Still here! Is he not
    A spy of my pursuer's? His frank offer
    So suddenly, and to a stranger, wore
    The aspect of a secret enemy;
    For friends are slow at such.

    Gab.
                                            Sir, you seem rapt;
    And yet the time is not akin to thought.
    These old walls will be noisy soon. The baron,
    Or count (or whatsoe'er this half drowned noble
    May be), for whom this desolate village and
    Its lone inhabitants show more respect
    Than did the elements, is come.

    Iden. (without).
                                            This way—
    This way, your Excellency:—have a care,
    The staircase is a little gloomy, and
    Somewhat decayed; but if we had expected
    So high a guest—Pray take my arm, my Lord!

    Enter Stralenheim, Idenstein, and Attendants—partly his own, and partly Retainers of the Domain of which Idenstein is Intendant.

    Stral.
    I'll rest here a moment.

    Iden. (to the servants).
                                            Ho! a chair!
    Instantly, knaves.
                                            [Stralenheim sits down.

    Wer. (aside).
                        'Tis he!

    Stral.
                                            I'm better now.
    Who are these strangers?

    Iden.
                                            Please you, my good Lord,
    One says he is no stranger.

    Wer. (aloud and hastily).
                                            Who says that?
                                            [They look at him with surprise.

    Iden.
    Why, no one spoke of you, or to you!—but
    Here's one his Excellency may be pleased
    To recognise.
                                            [Pointing to Gabor.

    Gab.
                                            I seek not to disturb
    His noble memory.

    Stral.
                                            I apprehend
    This is one of the strangers to whose aid
    I owe my rescue. Is not that the other?
                                            [Pointing to Werner.

    My state when I was succoured must excuse
    My uncertainty to whom I owe so much.

    Iden.
    He!—no, my Lord! he rather wants for rescue
    Than can afford it. 'Tis a poor sick man,
    Travel-tired, and lately risen from a bed
    From whence he never dreamed to rise.

    Stral.
                                            Methought
    That there were two.

    Gab.
                                            There were, in company;
    But, in the service rendered to your Lordship,
    I needs must say but one, and he is absent.
    The chief part of whatever aid was rendered
    Was his: it was his fortune to be first.
    My will was not inferior, but his strength
    And youth outstripped me; therefore do not waste
    Your thanks on me. I was but a glad second
    Unto a nobler principal.

    Stral.
                                            Where is he?

    An Atten.
    My Lord, he tarried in the cottage where
    Your Excellency rested for an hour,
    And said he would be here to-morrow.

    Stral.
                                            Till
    That hour arrives, I can but offer thanks,
    And then—

    Gab.
                                            I seek no more, and scarce deserve
    So much. My comrade may speak for himself.

    Stral. (fixing his eyes upon Werner: then aside).
    I cannot be! and yet he must be looked to.
    'Tis twenty years since I beheld him with
    These eyes; and, though my agents still have kept
    Theirs on him, policy has held aloof
    My own from his, not to alarm him into
    Suspicion of my plan. Why did I leave
    At Hamburgh those who would have made assurance
    If this be he or no? I thought, ere now,
    To have been lord of Siegendorf, and parted
    In haste, though even the elements appear
    To fight against me, and this sudden flood
    May keep me prisoner here till—
                                            [He pauses and looks at Werner: then resumus.

                                            This man must
    Be watched. If it is he, he is so changed,
    His father, rising from his grave again,
    Would pass by him unknown. I must be wary:
    An error would spoil all.

    Iden.
                                            Your Lordship seems
    Pensive. Will it not please you to pass on?

    Stral.
    'Tis past fatigue, which gives my weighed-down spirit
    An outward show of thought. I will to rest.

    Iden.
    The Prince's chamber is prepared, with all
    The very furniture the Prince used when
    Last here, in its full splendour.
                                            (Aside). Somewhat tattered,
    And devilish damp, but fine enough by torch-light;
    And that's enough for your right noble blood
    Of twenty quarterings upon a hatchment;
    So let their bearer sleep 'neath something like one
    Now, as he one day will for ever lie.

    Stral. (rising and turning to Gabor).
    Good night, good people! Sir, I trust to-morrow
    Will find me apter to requite your service.
    In the meantime I crave your company
    A moment in my chamber.

    Gab.
                        I attend you.

    Stral. (after a few steps, pauses, and calls Werner).
                                            Friend!

    Wer.
    Sir!

    Iden.
                                            Sir! Lord—oh Lord! Why don't you say
    His Lordship, or his Excellency? Pray,
    My Lord, excuse this poor man's want of breeding:
    He hath not been accustomed to admission
    To such a presence.

    Stral. (to Idenstein).
                        Peace, intendant!

    Iden.
                                            Oh!
    I am dumb.

    Stral. (to Werner).
                        Have you been long here?

    Wer.
                        Long?

    Stral.
                                            I sought
    An answer, not an echo.

    Wer.
                                            You may seek
    Both from the walls. I am not used to answer
    Those whom I know not.

    Stral.
                                            Indeed! Ne'er the less,
    You might reply with courtesy to what
    Is asked in kindness.

    Wer.
                                            When I know it such
    I will requite—that is, reply—in unison.

    Stral.
    The intendant said, you had been detained by sickness—
    If I could aid you—journeying the same way?

    Wer. (quickly).
    I am not journeying the same way!

    Stral.
                                            How know ye
    That, ere you know my route?

    Wer.
                                            Because there is
    But one way that the rich and poor must tread
    Together. You diverged from that dread path
    Some hours ago, and I some days: henceforth
    Our roads must lie asunder, though they tend
    All to one home.

    Stral.
                                            Your language is above
    Your station.

    Wer. (bitterly).
                        Is it?

    Stral.
                                            Or, at least, beyond
    Your garb.

    Wer.
                                            'Tis well that it is not beneath it,

    As sometimes happens to the better clad.
    But, in a word, what would you with me?

    Stral. (startled).
                                            I?

    Wer.
    Yes—you! You know me not, and question me,
    And wonder that I answer not—not knowing
    My inquisitor. Explain what you would have,
    And then I'll satisfy yourself, or me.

    Stral.
    I knew not that you had reasons for reserve.

    Wer.
    Many have such:—Have you none?

    Stral.
                                            None which can
    Interest a mere stranger.

    Wer.
                                            Then forgive
    The same unknown and humble stranger, if
    He wishes to remain so to the man
    Who can have nought in common with him.

    Stral.
                                            Sir,
    I will not balk your humour, though untoward:
    I only meant you service—but good night!
    Intendant, show the way! (To Gabor.) Sir, you will with me?
                                            [Exeunt Stralenheim and Attendants; Idenstein and Gabor.

    Wer. (solus).
    'Tis he! I am taken in the toils. Before
    I quitted Hamburg, Giulio, his late steward,
    Informed me, that he had obtained an order
    From Brandenburg's elector, for the arrest
    Of Kruitzner (such the name I then bore) when
    I came upon the frontier; the free city
    Alone preserved my freedom—till I left
    Its walls—fool that I was to quit them! But
    I deemed this humble garb, and route obscure,
    Had baffled the slow hounds in their pursuit.
    What's to be done? He knows me not by person;
    Nor could aught, save the eye of apprehension,
    Have recognised him, after twenty years—
    We met so rarely and so coldly in
    Our youth. But those about him! Now I can
    Divine the frankness of the Hungarian, who
    No doubt is a mere tool and spy of Stralenheim's,

    To sound and to secure me. Without means!
    Sick, poor—begirt too with the flooding rivers,
    Impassable even to the wealthy, with
    All the appliances which purchase modes
    Of overpowering peril, with men's lives,—
    How can I hope! An hour ago methought
    My state beyond despair; and now, 'tis such,
    The past seems paradise. Another day,
    And I'm detected,—on the very eve
    Of honours, rights, and my inheritance,
    When a few drops of gold might save me still
    In favouring an escape.

    Enter Idenstein and Fritz in conversation.

    Fritz.
                                            Immediately.

    Iden.
    I tell you, 'tis impossible.

    Fritz.
                                            It must
    Be tried, however; and if one express
    Fail, you must send on others, till the answer
    Anives from Frankfort, from the commandant.

    Iden.
    I will do what I can.

    Fritz.
                                            And recollect
    To spare no trouble; you will be repaid
    Tenfold.

    Iden.
                                            The Baron is retired to rest?

    Fritz.
    He hath thrown himself into an easy chair
    Beside the fire, and slumbers; and has ordered
    He may not be disturbed until eleven,
    When he will take himself to bed.

    Iden.
                                            Before
    An hour is past I'll do my best to serve him.

    Fritz.
    Remember!
                                            [Exit Fritz.

    Iden.
                                            The devil take these great men! they
    Think all things made for them. Now here must I
    Rouse up some half a dozen shivering vassals
    From their scant pallets, and, at peril of
    Their lives, despatch them o'er the river towards
    Frankfort. Methinks the Baron's own experience
    Some hours ago might teach him fellow-feeling:
    But no, "it must," and there's an end. How now?

    Are you there, Mynheer Werner?

    Wer.
                                            You have left
    Your noble guest right quickly.

    Iden.
                                            Yes—he's dozing,
    And seems to like that none should sleep besides.
    Here is a packet for the Commandant
    Of Frankfort, at all risks and all expenses;
    But I must not lose time: Good night!
                                            [Exit Iden.

    Wer.
                                            "To Frankfort!"
    So, so, it thickens! Aye, "the Commandant!"
    This tallies well with all the prior steps
    Of this cool, calculating fiend, who walks
    Between me and my father's house. No doubt
    He writes for a detachment to convey me
    Into some secret fortress.—Sooner than
    This—
                                            [Werner looks around, and snatches up a knife lying on a table in a recess.

                                            Now I am master of myself at least.
    Hark,—footsteps! How do I know that Stralenheim
    Will wait for even the show of that authority
    Which is to overshadow usurpation?
    That he suspects me's certain. I'm alone—
    He with a numerous train: I weak—he strong
    In gold, in numbers, rank, authority.
    I nameless, or involving in my name
    Destruction, till I reach my own domain;
    He full-blown with his titles, which impose
    Still further on these obscure petty burghers
    Than they could do elsewhere. Hark! nearer still!
    I'll to the secret passage, which communicates
    With the—No! all is silent—'twas my fancy!—
    Still as the breathless interval between
    The flash and thunder:—I must hush my soul
    Amidst its perils. Yet I will retire,
    To see if still be unexplored the passage
    I wot of: it will serve me as a den
    Of secrecy for some hours, at the worst.
                                            [Werner draws a panel, and exit, closing it after him.

    Enter Gabor and Josephine.

    Gab.
    Where is your husband?

    Jos.
                                            Here, I thought: I left him
    Not long since in his chamber. But these rooms
    Have many outlets, and he may be gone
    To accompany the Intendant.

    Gab.
                                            Baron Stralenheim
    Put many questions to the Intendant on
    The subject of your lord, and, to be plain,
    I have my doubts if he means well.

    Jos.
                                            Alas!
    What can there be in common with the proud
    And wealthy Baron, and the unknown Werner?

    Gab.
    That you know best.

    Jos.
                                            Or, if it were so, how
    Come you to stir yourself in his behalf,
    Rather than that of him whose life you saved?

    Gab.
    I helped to save him, as in peril; but
    I did not pledge myself to serve him in
    Oppression. I know well these nobles, and
    Their thousand modes of trampling on the poor.
    I have proved them; and my spirit boils up when
    I find them practising against the weak:—
    This is my only motive.

    Jos.
                                            It would be
    Not easy to persuade my consort of
    Your good intentions.

    Gab.
                                            Is he so suspicious?

    Jos.
    He was not once; but time and troubles have
    Made him what you beheld.

    Gab.
                                            I'm sorry for it.
    Suspicion is a heavy armour, and
    With its own weight impedes more than protects.
    Good night! I trust to meet with him at day-break.
                                            [Exit Gabor.

    Re-enter Idenstein and some Peasants. Josephine retires up the Hall.

    First Peasant.
    But if I'm drowned?

    Iden.
                                            Why, you will be well paid for 't,

    And have risked more than drowning for as much,
    I doubt not.

    Second Peasant.
                                            But our wives and families?

    Iden.
    Cannot be worse off than they are, and may
    Be better.

    Third Peasant.
                                            I have neither, and will venture.

    Iden.
    That's right. A gallant carle, and fit to be
    A soldier. I'll promote you to the ranks
    In the Prince's body-guard—if you succeed:
    And you shall have besides, in sparkling coin,
    Two thalers.

    Third Peasant.
                        No more!

    Iden.
                                            Out upon your avarice!
    Can that low vice alloy so much ambition?
    I tell thee, fellow, that two thalers in
    Small change will subdivide into a treasure.
    Do not five hundred thousand heroes daily
    Risk lives and souls for the tithe of one thaler?
    When had you half the sum?

    Third Peasant.
                                            Never—but ne'er
    The less I must have three.

    Iden.
                                            Have you forgot
    Whose vassal you were born, knave?

    Third Peasant.
                                            No—the Prince's,
    And not the stranger's.

    Iden.
                                            Sirrah! in the Prince's
    Absence, I am sovereign; and the Baron is
    My intimate connection;—"Cousin Idenstein!
    (Quoth he) you'll order out a dozen villains."
    And so, you villains! troop—march—march, I say;
    And if a single dog's ear of this packet
    Be sprinkled by the Oder—look to it!
    For every page of paper, shall a hide
    Of yours be stretched as parchment on a drum,
    Like Ziska's skin, to beat alarm to all
    Refractory vassals, who can not effect
    Impossibilities.—Away, ye earth-worms!
                                            [Exit, driving them out.

    Jos. (coming forward).
    I fain would shun these scenes, too oft repeated,

    Of feudal tyranny o'er petty victims;
    I cannot aid, and will not witness such.
    Even here, in this remote, unnamed, dull spot,
    The dimmest in the district's map, exist
    The insolence of wealth in poverty
    O'er something poorer still—the pride of rank
    In servitude, o'er something still more servile;
    And vice in misery affecting still
    A tattered splendour. What a state of being!
    In Tuscany, my own dear sunny land,
    Our nobles were but citizens and merchants,
    Like Cosmo. We had evils, but not such
    As these; and our all-ripe and gushing valleys
    Made poverty more cheerful, where each herb
    Was in itself a meal, and every vine
    Rained, as it were, the beverage which makes glad
    The heart of man; and the ne'er unfelt sun
    (But rarely clouded, and when clouded, leaving
    His warmth behind in memory of his beams)
    Makes the worn mantle, and the thin robe, less
    Oppressive than an emperor's jewelled purple.
    But, here! the despots of the north appear
    To imitate the ice-wind of their clime,
    Searching the shivering vassal through his rags,
    To wring his soul—as the bleak elements
    His form. And 'tis to be amongst these sovereigns
    My husband pants! and such his pride of birth—
    That twenty years of usage, such as no
    Father born in a humble state could nerve
    His soul to persecute a son withal,
    Hath changed no atom of his early nature;
    But I, born nobly also, from my father's
    Kindness was taught a different lesson. Father!
    May thy long-tried and now rewarded spirit
    Look down on us and our so long desired
    Ulric! I love my son, as thou didst me!
    What's that? Thou, Werner! can it be? and thus?

    Enter Werner hastily, with the knife in his hand, by the secret panel, which he closes hurriedly after him.

    Wer. (not at first recognising her).
    Discovered! then I'll stab—(recognising her).
                                            Ah! Josephine
    Why art thou not at rest?

    Jos.
                                            What rest? My God!
    What doth this mean?

    Wer. (showing a rouleau).
                                            Here's gold—gold, Josephine,
    Will rescue us from this detested dungeon.

    Jos.
    And how obtained?—that knife!

    Wer.
                                            'Tis bloodless—yet .
    Away—we must to our chamber.

    Jos.
                                            But whence comest thou?

    Wer.
    Ask not! but let us think where we shall go—
    This—this will make us way—(showing the gold)—I'll fit them now.

    Jos.
    I dare not think thee guilty of dishonour.

    Wer.
    Dishonour!

    Jos.
                        I have said it.

    Wer.
                                            Let us hence:
    'Tis the last night, I trust, that we need pass here.

    Jos.
    And not the worst, I hope.

    Wer.
                                            Hope! I make sure.
    But let us to our chamber.

    Jos.
                                            Yet one question—
    What hast thou done?

    Wer. (fiercely).
                                            Left one thing undone , which
    Had made all well: let me not think of it!
    Away!

    Jos.
                                            Alas that I should doubt of thee!
                                            [Exeunt.

    ACT II.

    Scene I.

    —A Hall in the same Palace.

    Enter Idenstein and Others.

    Iden.
    Fine doings! goodly doings! honest doings!
    A Baron pillaged in a Prince's palace!
    Where, till this hour, such a sin ne'er was heard of.

    Fritz.
    It hardly could, unless the rats despoiled
    The mice of a few shreds of tapestry.

    Iden.
    Oh! that I e'er should live to see this day!
    The honour of our city's gone for ever.

    Fritz.
    Well, but now to discover the delinquent:
    The Baron is determined not to lose
    This sum without a search.

    Iden.
                                            And so am I.

    Fritz.
    But whom do you suspect?

    Iden.
                                            Suspect! all people
    Without—within—above—below—Heaven help me!

    Fritz.
    Is there no other entrance to the chamber?

    Iden.
    None whatsoever.

    Fritz.
                                            Are you sure of that?

    Iden.
    Certain. I have lived and served here since my birth,
    And if there were such, must have heard of such,
    Or seen it.

    Fritz.
                                            Then it must be some one who
    Had access to the antechamber.

    Iden.
                                            Doubtless.

    Fritz.
    The man called Werner's poor!

    Iden.
                                            Poor as a miser.
    But lodged so far off, in the other wing,
    By which there's no communication with
    The baron's chamber, that it can't be he.
    Besides, I bade him "good night" in the hall,

    Almost a mile off, and which only leads
    To his own apartment, about the same time
    When this burglarious, larcenous felony
    Appears to have been committed.

    Fritz.
                                            There's another,
    The stranger—

    Iden.
                        The Hungarian?

    Fritz.
                                            He who helped
    To fish the baron from the Oder.

    Iden.
                                            Not
    Unlikely. But, hold—might it not have been
    One of the suite?

    Fritz.
                        How? We, sir!

    Iden.
                                            No—not you,
    But some of the inferior knaves. You say
    The Baron was asleep in the great chair—
    The velvet chair—in his embroidered night-gown;
    His toilet spread before him, and upon it
    A cabinet with letters, papers, and
    Several rouleaux of gold; of which one only
    Has disappeared:—the door unbolted, with
    No difficult access to any.

    Fritz.
                                            Good sir,
    Be not so quick; the honour of the corps
    Which forms the Baron's household's unimpeached
    From steward to scullion, save in the fair way
    Of peculation; such as in accompts,
    Weights, measures, larder, cellar, buttery,
    Where all men take their prey; as also in
    Postage of letters, gathering of rents,
    Purveying feasts, and understanding with
    The honest trades who furnish noble masters;
    But for your petty, picking, downright thievery,
    We scorn it as we do board wages. Then
    Had one of our folks done it, he would not
    Have been so poor a spirit as to hazard
    His neck for one rouleau, but have swooped all;
    Also the cabinet, if portable.

    Iden.
    There is some sense in that—

    Fritz.
                                            No, Sir, be sure

    Twas none of our corps; but some petty, trivial
    Fcker and stealer, without art or genius.
    The only question is—Who else could have
    Access, save the Hungarian and yourself?

    Iden.
    You don't mean me?

    Fritz.
                                            No, sir; I honour more
    Your talents—

    Iden.
                                            And my principles, I hope.

    Fritz.
    Of course. But to the point: What's to be done?

    Iden.
    Nothing—but there's a good deal to be said.
    We'll offer a reward; move heaven and earth,
    And the police (though there's none nearer than
    Frankfort); post notices in manuscript
    (For we've no printer); and set by my clerk
    To read them (for few can, save he and I).
    We'll send out villains to strip beggars, and
    Search empty pockets; also, to arrest
    All gipsies, and ill-clothed and sallow people.
    Prisoners we'll have at least, if not the culprit;
    And for the Baron's gold—if 'tis not found,
    At least he shall have the full satisfaction
    Of melting twice its substance in the raising
    The ghost of this rouleau. Here's alchemy
    For your Lord's losses!

    Fritz.
                                            He hath found a better.

    Iden.
    Where?

    Fritz.
                                            In a most immense inheritance.
    The late Count Siegendorf, his distant kinsman,
    Is dead near Prague, in his castle, and my Lord
    Is on his way to take possession.

    Iden.
                                            Was there
    No heir?

    Fritz.
                                            Oh, yes; but he has disappeared
    Long from the world's eye, and, perhaps, the world.
    A prodigal son, beneath his father's ban
    For the last twenty years; for whom his sire
    Refused to kill the fatted calf; and, therefore,
    If living, he must chew the husks still. But
    The Baron would find means to silence him,
    Were he to re-appear: he's politic,

    And has much influence with a certain court.

    Iden.
    He's fortunate.

    Fritz.
                                            'Tis true, there is a grandson,
    Whom the late Count reclaimed from his son's hands,
    And educated as his heir; but, then,
    His birth is doubtful.

    Iden.
                        How so?

    Fritz.
                                            His sire made
    A left-hand, love, imprudent sort of marriage,
    With an Italian exile's dark-eyed daughter:
    Noble, they say, too; but no match for such
    A house as Siegendorf's. The grandsire ill
    Could brook the alliance; and could ne'er be brought
    To see the parents, though he took the son.

    Iden.
    If he's a lad of mettle, he may yet
    Dispute your claim, and weave a web that may
    Puzzle your Baron to unravel.

    Fritz.
                                            Why,
    For mettle, he has quite enough: they say,
    He forms a happy mixture of his sire
    And grandsire's qualities,—impetuous as
    The former, and deep as the latter; but
    The strangest is, that he too disappeared
    Some months ago.

    Iden.
                        The devil he did!

    Fritz.
                                            Why, yes:
    It must have been at his suggestion, at
    An hour so critical as was the eve
    Of the old man's death, whose heart was broken by it.

    Iden.
    Was there no cause assigned?

    Fritz.
                                            Plenty, no doubt.
    And none, perhaps, the true one. Some averred
    It was to seek his parents; some because
    The old man held his spirit in so strictly
    (But that could scarce be, for he doted on him);
    A third believed he wished to serve in war,
    But, peace being made soon after his departure,
    He might have since returned, were that the motive;
    A fourth set charitably have surmised,
    As there was something strange and mystic in him,
    That in the wild exuberance of his nature

    He had joined the black bands, who lay waste Lusatia,
    The mountains of Bohemia and Silesia,
    Since the last years of war had dwindled into
    A kind of general condottiero system
    Of bandit-warfare; each troop with its chief,
    And all against mankind.

    Iden.
                                            That cannot be.
    A young heir, bred to wealth and luxury,
    To risk his life and honours with disbanded
    Soldiers and desperadoes!

    Fritz.
                                            Heaven best knows!
    But there are human natures so allied
    Unto the savage love of enterprise,
    That they will seek for peril as a pleasure.
    I've heard that nothing can reclaim your Indian,
    Or tame the tiger, though their infancy
    Were fed on milk and honey. After all,
    Your Wallenstein, your Tilly and Gustavus,
    Your Bannier, and your Torstenson and Weimar,

    Were but the same thing upon a grand scale;
    And now that they are gone, and peace proclaimed,
    They who would follow the same pastime must
    Pursue it on their own account. Here comes
    The Baron, and the Saxon stranger, who
    Was his chief aid in yesterday's escape,
    But did not leave the cottage by the Oder
    Until this morning.

    Enter Stralenheim and Ulric.

    Stral.
                                            Since you have refused
    All compensation, gentle stranger, save
    Inadequate thanks, you almost check even them,
    Making me feel the worthlessness of words,
    And blush at my own barren gratitude,
    They seem so niggardly, compared with what
    Your courteous courage did in my behalf—

    Ulr.
    I pray you press the theme no further.

    Stral.
                                            But
    Can I not serve you? You are young, and of
    That mould which throws out heroes; fair in favour;
    Brave, I know, by my living now to say so;
    And, doubtlessly, with such a form and heart,
    Would look into the fiery eyes of War,
    As ardently for glory as you dared
    An obscure death to save an unknown stranger,
    In an as perilous, but opposite, element.
    You are made for the service: I have served;
    Have rank by birth and soldiership, and friends,
    Who shall be yours. 'Tis true this pause of peace
    Favours such views at present scantily;
    But 'twill not last, men's spirits are too stirring;
    And, after thirty years of conflict, peace
    Is but a petty war, as the time shows us
    In every forest, or a mere armed truce.
    War will reclaim his own; and, in the meantime,
    You might obtain a post, which would ensure

    A higher soon, and, by my influence, fail not
    To rise. I speak of Brandenburgh, wherein
    I stand well with the Elector; in Bohemia,
    Like you, I am a stranger, and we are now
    Upon its frontier.

    Ulr.
                                            You perceive my garb
    Is Saxon, and, of course, my service due
    To my own Sovereign. If I must decline
    Your offer, 'tis with the same feeling which
    Induced it.

    Stral.
                                            Why, this is mere usury!
    I owe my life to you, and you refuse
    The acquittance of the interest of the debt,
    To heap more obligations on me, till
    I bow beneath them.

    Ulr.
                                            You shall say so when
    I claim the payment.

    Stral.
                                            Well, sir, since you will not—
    You are nobly born?

    Ulr.
                                            I have heard my kinsmen say so.

    Stral.
    Your actions show it. Might I ask your name?

    Ulr.
    Ulric.

    Stral.
                        Your house's?

    Ulr.
                                            When I'm worthy of it,
    I'll answer you.

    Stral. (aside).
                                            Most probably an Austrian,
    Whom these unsettled times forbid to boast
    His lineage on these wild and dangerous frontiers,
    Where the name of his country is abhorred.
                                            [Aloud to Fritz and Idenstein.

    So, sirs! how have ye sped in your researches?

    Iden.
    Indifferent well, your Excellency.

    Stral.
                                            Then
    I am to deem the plunderer is caught?

    Iden.
    Humph!—not exactly.

    Stral.
                                            Or, at least, suspected?

    Iden.
    Oh! for that matter, very much suspected.

    Stral.
    Who may he be?

    Iden.
                                            Why, don't you know, my Lord?

    Stral.
    How should I? I was fast asleep.

    Iden.
                                            And so
    Was I—and that's the cause I know no more
    Than does your Excellency.

    Stral.
                        Dolt!

    Iden.
                                            Why, if
    Your Lordship, being robbed, don't recognise
    The rogue; how should I, not being robbed, identify
    The thief among so many? In the crowd,
    May it please your Excellency, your thief looks
    Exactly like the rest, or rather better:
    'Tis only at the bar and in the dungeon,
    That wise men know your felon by his features;
    But I'll engage, that if seen there but once,
    Whether he be found criminal or no,
    His face shall be so.

    Stral. (to Fritz).
                                            Prithee, Fritz, inform me
    What hath been done to trace the fellow?

    Fritz.
                                            Faith!
    My Lord, not much as yet, except conjecture.

    Stral.
    Besides the loss (which, I must own, affects me
    Just now materially), I needs would find
    The villain out of public motives; for
    So dexterous a spoiler, who could creep
    Through my attendants, and so many peopled
    And lighted chambers, on my rest, and snatch
    The gold before my scarce-closed eyes, would soon
    Leave bare your borough, Sir Intendant!

    Iden.
                                            True;
    If there were aught to carry off, my Lord.

    Ulr.
    What is all this?

    Stral.
                                            You joined us but this morning.
    And have not heard that I was robbed last night.

    Ulr.
    Some rumour of it reached me as I passed
    The outer chambers of the palace, but
    I know no further.

    Stral.
                                            It is a strange business:
    The Intendant can inform you of the facts.

    Iden.
    Most willingly. You see—

    Stral. (impatiently).
                                            Defer your tale,

    Till certain of the hearer's patience.

    Iden.
                                            That
    Can only be approved by proofs. You see—

    Stral. (again interrupting him, and addressing Ulric).
    In short, I was asleep upon my chair,
    My cabinet before me, with some gold
    Upon it (more than I much like to lose,
    Though in part only): some ingenious person
    Contrived to glide through all my own attendants,
    Besides those of the place, and bore away
    A hundred golden ducats, which to find
    I would be fain, and there's an end. Perhaps
    You (as I still am rather faint) would add
    To yesterday's great obligation, this,
    Though slighter, yet not slight, to aid these men
    (Who seem but lukewarm) in recovering it?

    Ulr.
    Most willingly, and without loss of time—
    (To Idenstein.) Come hither, mynheer!

    Iden.
                                            But so much haste bodes
    Right little speed, and—

    Ulr.
                                            Standing motionless
    None; so let's march: we'll talk as we go on.

    Iden.
    But—

    Ulr.
                                            Show the spot, and then I'll answer you.

    Fritz.
    I will, sir, with his Excellency's leave.

    Stral.
    Do so, and take yon old ass with you.

    Fritz.
                                            Hence!

    Ulr.
    Come on, old oracle, expound thy riddle!
                                            [Exit with Idenstein and Fritz.

    Stral. (solus).
    A stalwart, active, soldier-looking stripling,
    Handsome as Hercules ere his first labour,
    And with a brow of thought beyond his years
    When in repose, till his eye kindles up
    In answering yours. I wish I could engage him:
    I have need of some such spirits near me now,
    For this inheritance is worth a struggle.
    And though I am not the man to yield without one,
    Neither are they who now rise up between me
    And my desire. The boy, they say, 's a bold one;
    But he hath played the truant in some hour

    Of freakish folly, leaving fortune to
    Champion his claims. That's well. The father, whom
    For years I've tracked, as does the blood-hound, never
    In sight, but constantly in scent, had put me
    To fault; but here I have him, and that's better.
    It must be he! All circumstance proclaims it;
    And careless voices, knowing not the cause
    Of my enquiries, still confirm it.—Yes!
    The man, his bearing, and the mystery
    Of his arrival, and the time; the account, too,
    The Intendant gave (for I have not beheld her)
    Of his wife's dignified but foreign aspect;
    Besides the antipathy with which we met,
    As snakes and lions shrink back from each other
    By secret instinct that both must be foes
    Deadly, without being natural prey to either;
    All—all—confirm it to my mind. However,
    We'll grapple, ne'ertheless. In a few hours
    The order comes from Frankfort, if these waters
    Rise not the higher (and the weather favours
    Their quick abatement), and I'll have him safe
    Within a dungeon, where he may avouch
    His real estate and name; and there's no harm done,
    Should he prove other than I deem. This robbery
    (Save for the actual loss) is lucky also;
    He's poor, and that's suspicious—he's unknown,
    And that's defenceless.—True, we have no proofs
    Of guilt—but what hath he of innocence?
    Were he a man indifferent to my prospects,
    In other bearings, I should rather lay
    The inculpation on the Hungarian, who
    Hath something which I like not; and alone
    Of all around, except the Intendant, and
    The Prince's household and my own, had ingress
    Familiar to the chamber.

    Enter Gabor.


                                            Friend, how fare you?

    Gab.
    As those who fare well everywhere, when they
    Have supped and slumbered, no great matter how—

    And you, my Lord?

    Stral.
                                            Better in rest than purse:
    Mine inn is like to cost me dear.

    Gab.
                                            I heard
    Of your late loss; but 'tis a trifle to
    One of your order.

    Stral.
                                            You would hardly think so,
    Were the loss yours.

    Gab.
                                            I never had so much
    (At once) in my whole life, and therefore am not
    Fit to decide. But I came here to seek you.
    Your couriers are turned back—I have outstripped them,
    In my return.

    Stral.
                        You!—Why?

    Gab.
                                            I went at daybreak,
    To watch for the abatement of the river,
    As being anxious to resume my journey.
    Your messengers were all checked like myself;
    And, seeing the case hopeless, I await
    The current's pleasure.

    Stral.
                                            Would the dogs were in it!
    Why did they not, at least, attempt the passage?
    I ordered this at all risks.

    Gab.
                                            Could you order
    The Oder to divide, as Moses did
    The Red Sea (scarcely redder than the flood
    Of the swoln stream), and be obeyed, perhaps
    They might have ventured.

    Stral.
                                            I must see to it:
    The knaves! the slaves!—but they shall smart for this.
                                            [Exit Stralenheim.

    Gab. (solus).
    There goes my noble, feudal, self-willed Baron!
    Epitome of what brave chivalry
    The preux Chevaliers of the good old times
    Have left us. Yesterday he would have given
    His lands (if he hath any), and, still dearer,

    His sixteen quarterings, for as much fresh air
    As would have filled a bladder, while he lay
    Gurgling and foaming half way through the window
    Of his o'erset and water-logged conveyance;
    And now he storms at half a dozen wretches
    Because they love their lives too! Yet, he's right:
    'Tis strange they should, when such as he may put them
    To hazard at his pleasure. Oh, thou world!
    Thou art indeed a melancholy jest!
                                            [Exit Gabor.

    Scene II.

    —The Apartment of Werner, in the Palace.

    Enter Josephine and Ulric.

    Jos.
    Stand back, and let me look on thee again!
    My Ulric!—my belovéd!—can it be—
    After twelve years?

    Ulr.
                        My dearest mother!

    Jos.
                                            Yes!
    My dream is realised—how beautiful!—
    How more than all I sighed for! Heaven receive
    A mother's thanks! a mother's tears of joy!
    This is indeed thy work!—At such an hour, too,
    He comes not only as a son, but saviour.

    Ulr.
    If such a joy await me, it must double
    What I now feel, and lighten from my heart
    A part of the long debt of duty, not
    Of love (for that was ne'er withheld)—forgive me!
    This long delay was not my fault.

    Jos.
                                            I know it,
    But cannot think of sorrow now, and doubt
    If I e'er felt it, 'tis so dazzled from
    My memory by this oblivious transport!—
    My son!

    Enter Werner.

    Wer.
                        What have we here,—more strangers?—

    Jos.
                                            No!
    Look upon him! What do you see?

    Wer.
                                            A stripling,
    For the first time—

    Ulr. (kneeling).
                                            For twelve long years, my father!

    Wer.
    Oh, God!

    Jos.
                        He faints!

    Wer.
                                            No—I am better now—
    Ulric! (Embraces him.)

    Ulr.
                        My father, Siegendorf!

    Wer. (starting).
                                            Hush! boy—
    The walls may hear that name!

    Ulr.
                        What then?

    Wer.
                                            Why, then—
    But we will talk of that anon. Remember,
    I must be known here but as Werner. Come!
    Come to my arms again! Why, thou look'st all
    I should have been, and was not. Josephine!
    Sure 'tis no father's fondness dazzles me;
    But, had I seen that form amid ten thousand
    Youth of the choicest, my heart would have chosen
    This for my son!

    Ulr.
                                            And yet you knew me not!

    Wer.
    Alas! I have had that upon my soul
    Which makes me look on all men with an eye
    That only knows the evil at first glance.

    Ulr.
    My memory served me far more fondly: I
    Have not forgotten aught; and oft-times in
    The proud and princely halls of—(I'll not name them,
    As you say that 'tis perilous)—but i' the pomp
    Of your sire's feudal mansion, I looked back
    To the Bohemian mountains many a sunset,
    And wept to see another day go down
    O'er thee and me, with those huge hills between us.
    They shall not part us more.

    Wer.
                                            I know not that.
    Are you aware my father is no more?

    Ulr.
    Oh, Heavens! I left him in a green old age,

    And looking like the oak, worn, but still steady
    Amidst the elements, whilst younger trees
    Fell fast around him. 'Twas scarce three months since.

    Wer.
    Why did you leave him?

    Jos. (embracing Ulric).
                                            Can you ask that question?
    Is he not here?

    Wer.
                                            True; he hath sought his parents,
    And found them; but, oh! how, and in what state!

    Ulr.
    All shall be bettered. What we have to do
    Is to proceed, and to assert our rights,
    Or rather yours; for I waive all, unless
    Your father has disposed in such a sort
    Of his broad lands as to make mine the foremost,
    So that I must prefer my claim for form:
    But I trust better, and that all is yours.

    Wer.
    Have you not heard of Stralenheim?

    Ulr.
                                            I saved
    His life but yesterday: he's here.

    Wer.
                                            You saved
    The serpent who will sting us all!

    Ulr.
                                            You speak
    Riddles: what is this Stralenheim to us?

    Wer.
    Every thing. One who claims our father's lands:
    Our distant kinsman, and our nearest foe.

    Ulr.
    I never heard his name till now. The Count,
    Indeed, spoke sometimes of a kinsman, who,
    If his own line should fail, might be remotely
    Involved in the succession; but his titles
    Were never named before me—and what then?
    His right must yield to ours.

    Wer.
                                            Aye, if at Prague:
    But here he is all-powerful; and has spread
    Snares for thy father, which, if hitherto
    He hath escaped them, is by fortune, not
    By favour.

    Ulr.
                                            Doth he personally know you?

    Wer.
    No; but he guesses shrewdly at my person,
    As he betrayed last night; and I, perhaps,
    But owe my temporary liberty
    To his uncertainty.

    Ulr.
                                            I think you wrong him

    (Excuse me for the phrase); but Stralenheim
    Is not what you prejudge him, or, if so,
    He owes me something both for past and present.
    I saved his life, he therefore trusts in me.
    He hath been plundered too, since he came hither:
    Is sick, a stranger, and as such not now
    Able to trace the villain who hath robbed him:
    I have pledged myself to do so; and the business
    Which brought me here was chiefly that: but I
    Have found, in searching for another's dross,
    My own whole treasure—you, my parents!

    Wer. (agitatedly).
                                            Who
    Taught you to mouth that name of "villain?"

    Ulr.
                                            What
    More noble name belongs to common thieves?

    Wer.
    Who taught you thus to brand an unknown being
    With an infernal stigma?

    Ulr.
                                            My own feelings
    Taught me to name a ruffian from his deeds.

    Wer.
    Who taught you, long-sought and ill-found boy! that
    It would be safe for my own son to insult me?

    Ulr.
    I named a villain. What is there in common
    With such a being and my father?

    Wer.
                                            Every thing!
    That ruffian is thy father!

    Jos.
                                            Oh, my son!
    Believe him not—and yet!—(her voice falters.)

    Ulr. (starts, looks earnestly at Werner and then says slowly).
                                            And you avow it?

    Wer.
    Ulric, before you dare despise your father,
    Learn to divine and judge his actions. Young,
    Rash, new to life, and reared in Luxury's lap,
    Is it for you to measure Passion's force,
    Or Misery's temptation? Wait—(not long,
    It cometh like the night, and quickly)—Wait!—
    Wait till, like me, your hopes are blighted till
    Sorrow and Shame are handmaids of your cabin—
    Famine and Poverty your guests at table;
    Despair your bed-fellow—then rise, but not
    From sleep, and judge! Should that day e'er arrive—
    Should you see then the Serpent, who hath coiled
    Himself around all that is dear and noble
    Of you and yours, lie slumbering in your path,
    With but his folds between your steps and happiness,
    When he, who lives but to tear from you name,
    Lands, life itself, lies at your mercy, with
    Chance your conductor—midnight for your mantle—
    The bare knife in your hand, and earth asleep,
    Even to your deadliest foe; and he as 'twere
    Inviting death, by looking like it, while
    His death alone can save you:—Thank your God!
    If then, like me, content with petty plunder,
    You turn aside—I did so.

    Ulr.
                        But—

    Wer. (abruptly).
                                            Hear me!
    I will not brook a human voice—scarce dare
    Listen to my own (if that be human still)—

    Hear me! you do not know this man—I do.
    He's mean, deceitful, avaricious. You
    Deem yourself safe, as young and brave; but learn
    None are secure from desperation, few
    From subtilty. My worst foe, Stralenheim,
    Housed in a Prince's palace, couched within
    A Prince's chamber, lay below my knife!
    An instant—a mere motion—the least impulse—
    Had swept him and all fears of mine from earth.
    He was within my power—my knife was raised—
    Withdrawn—and I'm in his:—are you not so?
    Who tells you that he knows you not? Who says
    He hath not lured you here to end you? or
    To plunge you, with your parents, in a dungeon?
                                            [He pauses.

    Ulr.
    Proceed—proceed!

    Wer.
                                            Me he hath ever known,
    And hunted through each change of time—name—fortune—
    And why not you? Are you more versed in men?
    He wound snares round me; flung along my path
    Reptiles, whom, in my youth, I would have spurned
    Even from my presence; but, in spurning now,
    Fill only with fresh venom. Will you be
    More patient? Ulric!—Ulric!—there are crimes
    Made venial by the occasion, and temptations
    Which nature cannot master or forbear.

    Ulr. (who looks first at him and then at Josephine).
    My mother!

    Wer.
                                            Ah! I thought so: you have now
    Only one parent. I have lost alike
    Father and son, and stand alone.

    Ulr.
                                            But stay!
                                            [Werner rushes out of the chamber.

    Jos. (to Ulric).
    Follow him not, until this storm of passion
    Abates. Think'st thou, that were it well for him,
    I had not followed?

    Ulr.
                                            I obey you, mother,
    Although reluctantly. My first act shall not
    Be one of disobedience.

    Jos.
                                            Oh! he is good!
    Condemn him not from his own mouth, but trust
    To me, who have borne so much with him, and for him,
    That this is but the surface of his soul,
    And that the depth is rich in better things.

    Ulr.
    These then are but my father's principles?
    My mother thinks not with him?

    Jos.
                                            Nor doth he
    Think as he speaks. Alas! long years of grief
    Have made him sometimes thus.

    Ulr.
                                            Explain to me
    More clearly, then, these claims of Stralenheim,
    That, when I see the subject in its bearings,
    I may prepare to face him, or at least
    To extricate you from your present perils.
    I pledge myself to accomplish this—but would
    I had arrived a few hours sooner!

    Jos.
                                            Aye!
    Hadst thou but done so!

    Enter Gabor and Idenstein, with Attendants.

    Gab. (to Ulric).
                                            I have sought you, comrade.
    So this is my reward!

    Ulr.
                                            What do you mean?

    Gab.
    'Sdeath! have I lived to these years, and for this!
    (To Idenstein.) But for your age and folly, I would—

    Iden.
                                            Help!
    Hands off! Touch an Intendant!

    Gab.
                                            Do not think
    I'll honour you so much as save your throat
    From the Ravenstone by choking you myself.

    Iden.
    I thank you for the respite: but there are
    Those who have greater need of it than me.

    Ulr.
    Unriddle this vile wrangling, or—

    Gab.
                                            At once, then,
    The Baron has been robbed, and upon me
    This worthy personage has deigned to fix
    His kind suspicions—me! whom he ne'er saw
    Will yester evening.

    Iden.
                                            Wouldst have me suspect
    My own acquaintances? You have to learn
    That I keep better company.

    Gab.
                                            You shall
    Keep the best shortly, and the last for all men,
    The worms! You hound of malice!
                                            [Gabor seizes on him.

    Ulr. (interfering).
                                            Nay, no violence:
    He's old, unarmed—be temperate, Gabor!

    Gab. (letting go Idenstein).
                                            True:
    I am a fool to lose myself because
    Fools deem me knave: it is their homage.

    Ulr. (to Idenstein).
                                            How
    Fare you?

    Iden.
                        Help!

    Ulr.
                        I have helped you.

    Iden.
                                            Kill him! then
    I'll say so.

    Gab.
                        I am calm—live on!

    Iden.
                                            That's more
    Than you shall do, if there be judge or judgment
    In Germany. The Baron shall decide!

    Gab.
    Does he abet you in your accusation?

    Iden.
    Does he not?

    Gab.
                                            Then next time let him go sink
    Ere I go hang for snatching him from drowning.
    But here he comes!

    Enter Stralenheim.

    Gab. (goes up to him).
                                            My noble Lord, I'm here!

    Stral.
    Well, sir!

    Gab.
                        Have you aught with me?

    Stral.
                                            What should I
    Have with you?

    Gab.
                                            You know best, if yesterday's
    Flood has not washed away your memory;
    But that 's a trifle. I stand here accused,
    In phrases not equivocal, by yon
    Intendant, of the pillage of your person
    Or chamber:—is the charge your own or his?

    Stral.
    I accuse no man.

    Gab.
                                            Then you acquit me, Baron?

    Stral.
    I know not whom to accuse, or to acquit,
    Or scarcely to suspect.

    Gab.
                                            But you at least
    Should know whom not to suspect. I am insulted—
    Oppressed here by these menials, and I look
    To you for remedy—teach them their duty!
    To look for thieves at home were part of it,
    If duly taught; but, in one word, if I
    Have an accuser, let it be a man
    Worthy to be so of a man like me.
    I am your equal.

    Stral.
                        You!

    Gab.
                                            Aye, sir; and, for
    Aught that you know, superior; but proceed—

    I do not ask for hints, and surmises,
    And circumstance, and proof: I know enough
    Of what I have done for you, and what you owe me,
    To have at least waited your payment rather
    Than paid myself, had I been eager of
    Your gold. I also know, that were I even
    The villain I am deemed, the service rendered
    So recently would not permit you to
    Pursue me to the death, except through shame,
    Such as would leave your scutcheon but a blank.
    But this is nothing: I demand of you
    Justice upon your unjust servants, and
    From your own lips a disavowal of
    All sanction of their insolence: thus much
    You owe to the unknown, who asks no more,
    And never thought to have asked so much.

    Stral.
                                            This tone
    May be of innocence.

    Gab.
                                            'Sdeath! who dare doubt it,
    Except such villains as ne'er had it?

    Stral.
                                            You
    Are hot, sir.

    Gab.
                                            Must I turn an icicle
    Before the breath of menials, and their master?

    Stral.
    Ulric! you know this man; I found him in
    Your company.

    Gab.
                                            We found you in the Oder;
    Would we had left you there!

    Stral.
                                            I give you thanks, sir.

    Gab.
    I've earned them; but might have earned more from others,
    Perchance, if I had left you to your fate.

    Stral.
    Ulric! you know this man?

    Gab.
                                            No more than you do
    If he avouches not my honour.

    Ulr.
                                            I
    Can vouch your courage, and, as far as my
    Own brief connection led me, honour.

    Stral.
                                            Then
    I'm satisfied.

    Gab. (ironically).
                                            Right easily, methinks.
    What is the spell in his asseveration
    More than in mine?

    Stral.
                                            I merely said that I
    Was satisfied—not that you are absolved.

    Gab.
    Again! Am I accused or no?

    Stral.
                                            Go to!
    You wax too insolent. If circumstance
    And general suspicion be against you,
    Is the fault mine? Is't not enough that I
    Decline all question of your guilt or innocence?

    Gab.
    My Lord, my Lord, this is mere cozenage,
    A vile equivocation; you well know
    Your doubts are certainties to all around you—
    Your looks a voice—your frowns a sentence; you
    Are practising your power on me—because
    You have it; but beware! you know not whom
    You strive to tread on.

    Stral.
                        Threat'st thou?

    Gab.
                                            Not so much
    As you accuse. You hint the basest injury,
    And I retort it with an open warning.

    Stral.
    As you have said, 'tis true I owe you something,
    For which you seem disposed to pay yourself.

    Gab.
    Not with your gold.

    Stral.
                                            With bootless insolence.
                                            [To his Attendants and Idenstein.

    You need not further to molest this man,
    But let him go his way. Ulric, good morrow!
                                            [Exit Stralenheim, Idenstein, and Attendants.

    Gab. (following).
    I'll after him and—

    Ulr. (stopping him).
                        Not a step.

    Gab.
                                            Who shall
    Oppose me?

    Ulr.
                                            Your own reason, with a moment's
    Thought.

    Gab.
                        Must I bear this?

    Ulr.
                                            Pshaw! we all must bear
    The arrogance of something higher than
    Ourselves—the highest cannot temper Satan,
    Nor the lowest his vicegerents upon earth.
    I've seen you brave the elements, and bear
    Things which had made this silkworm cast his skin—
    And shrink you from a few sharp sneers and words?

    Gab.
    Must I bear to be deemed a thief? If 'twere
    A bandit of the woods, I could have borne it—
    There's something daring in it:—but to steal
    The moneys of a slumbering man!—

    Ulr.
                                            It seems, then,
    You are not guilty.

    Gab.
                                            Do I hear aright?
    You too!

    Ulr.
                                            I merely asked a simple question.

    Gab.
    If the judge asked me, I would answer "No"—
    To you I answer thus.
                                            [He draws.

    Ulr. (drawing).
                                            With all my heart!

    Jos.
    Without there! Ho! help! help!—Oh, God! here 's murder!
                                            [Exit Josephine, shrieking.

    Gabor and Ulric fight. Gaboris disarmed just as Stralenheim, Josephine, Idenstein, etc., re-enter.

    Jos.
    Oh! glorious Heaven! He 's safe!

    Stral. (to Josephine).
                        Who's safe!

    Jos.
                        My—

    Ulr. (interrupting her with a stern look, and turning afterwards to Stralenheim).
                                            Both!
    Here 's no great harm done.

    Stral.
                                            What hath caused all this?

    Ulr.
    You, Baron, I believe; but as the effect
    Is harmless, let it not disturb you.—Gabor!
    There is your sword; and when you bare it next,

    Let it not be against your friends.
                                            [Ulric pronounces the last words slowly and emphatically in a low voice to Gabor.

    Gab.
                                            I thank you
    Less for my life than for your counsel.

    Stral.
                                            These
    Brawls must end here.

    Gab. (taking his sword).
                                            They shall. You've wronged me, Ulric,
    More with your unkind thoughts than sword: I would
    The last were in my bosom rather than
    The first in yours. I could have borne yon noble's
    Absurd insinuations—ignorance
    And dull suspicion are a part of his
    Entail will last him longer than his lands—
    But I may fit him yet:—you have vanquished me.
    I was the fool of passion to conceive
    That I could cope with you, whom I had seen
    Already proved by greater perils than
    Rest in this arm. We may meet by and by,
    However—but in friendship.
                                            [Exit Gabor.

    Stral.
                                            I will brook
    No more! This outrage following upon his insults,
    Perhaps his guilt, has cancelled all the little
    I owed him heretofore for the so-vaunted
    Aid which he added to your abler succour.
    Ulric, you are not hurt?—

    Ulr.
                                            Not even by a scratch.

    Stral. (to Idenstein).
    Intendant! take your measures to secure
    Yon fellow: I revoke my former lenity.
    He shall be sent to Frankfort with an escort,
    The instant that the waters have abated.

    Iden.
    Secure him! He hath got his sword again—
    And seems to know the use on't; 'tis his trade,
    Belike;—I'm a civilian.

    Stral.
                                            Fool! are not
    Yon score of vassals dogging at your heels
    Enough to seize a dozen such? Hence! after him!

    Ulr.
    Baron, I do beseech you!

    Stral.
                                            I must be

    Obeyed. No words!

    Iden.
                                            Well, if it must be so—
    March, vassals! I'm your leader, and will bring
    The rear up: a wise general never should
    Expose his precious life—on which all rests.
    I like that article of war.
                                            [Exit Idenstein and Attendants.

    Stral.
                                            Come hither,
    Ulric; what does that woman here? Oh! now
    I recognise her, 'tis the stranger's wife
    Whom they name "Werner."

    Ulr.
                        'Tis his name.

    Stral.
                                            Indeed!
    Is not your husband visible, fair dame?—

    Jos.
    Who seeks him?

    Stral.
                                            No one—for the present: but
    I fain would parley, Ulric, with yourself
    Alone.

    Ulr.
                        I will retire with you.

    Jos.
                                            Not so:
    You are the latest stranger, and command
    All places here.

    (Aside to Ulric, as she goes out.)
                                            O Ulric! have a care—
    Remember what depends on a rash word!

    Ulr. (to Josephine).
                                            Fear not!—
                                            [Exit Josephine.

    Stral.
    Ulric, I think that I may trust you;
    You saved my life—and acts like these beget
    Unbounded confidence.

    Ulr.
                        Say on.

    Stral.
                                            Mysterious
    And long-engendered circumstances (not
    To be now fully entered on) have made
    This man obnoxious—perhaps fatal to me.

    Ulr.
    Who? Gabor, the Hungarian?

    Stral.
                                            No—this "Werner"—
    With the false name and habit.

    Ulr.
                                            How can this be?
    He is the poorest of the poor—and yellow
    Sickness sits caverned in his hollow eye:

    The man is helpless.

    Stral.
                                            He is—'tis no matter;—
    But if he be the man I deem (and that
    He is so, all around us here—and much
    That is not here—confirm my apprehension)
    He must be made secure ere twelve hours further.

    Ulr.
    And what have I to do with this?

    Stral.
                                            I have sent
    To Frankfort, to the Governor, my friend,
    (I have the authority to do so by
    An order of the house of Brandenburgh),
    For a fit escort—but this curséd flood
    Bars all access, and may do for some hours.

    Ulr.
    It is abating.

    Stral.
                        That is well.

    Ulr.
                                            But how
    Am I concerned?

    Stral.
                                            As one who did so much
    For me, you cannot be indifferent to
    That which is of more import to me than
    The life you rescued.—Keep your eye on him!
    The man avoids me, knows that I now know him.—
    Watch him!—as you would watch the wild boar when
    He makes against you in the hunter's gap—
    Like him he must be speared.

    Ulr.
                        Why so?

    Stral.
                                            He stands
    Between me and a brave inheritance!
    Oh! could you see it! But you shall.

    Ulr.
                                            I hope so.

    Stral.
    It is the richest of the rich Bohemia,
    Unscathed by scorching war. It lies so near
    The strongest city, Prague, that fire and sword
    Have skimmed it lightly: so that now, besides
    Its own exuberance, it bears double value
    Confronted with whole realms far and near
    Made deserts.

    Ulr.
                                            You describe it faithfully.

    Stral.
    Aye—could you see it, you would say so—but,
    As I have said, you shall.

    Ulr.
                                            I accept the omen.

    Stral.
    Then claim a recompense from it and me,
    Such as both may make worthy your acceptance
    And services to me and mine for ever.

    Ulr.
    And this sole, sick, and miserable wretch—
    This way-worn stranger—stands between you and
    This Paradise?—(As Adam did between
    The devil and his)—[Aside].

    Stral.
                        He doth.

    Ulr.
                                            Hath he no right?

    Stral.
    Right! none. A disinherited prodigal,
    Who for these twenty years disgraced his lineage
    In all his acts—but chiefly by his marriage,
    And living amidst commerce-fetching burghers,
    And dabbling merchants, in a mart of Jews.

    Ulr.
    He has a wife, then?

    Stral.
                                            You'd be sorry to
    Call such your mother. You have seen the woman
    He calls his wife.

    Ulr.
                        Is she not so?

    Stral.
                                            No more
    Than he 's your father:—an Italian girl,
    The daughter of a banished man, who lives
    On love and poverty with this same Werner.

    Ulr.
    They are childless, then?

    Stral.
                                            There is or was a bastard,
    Whom the old man—the grandsire (as old age
    Is ever doting) took to warm his bosom,
    As it went chilly downward to the grave:
    But the imp stands not in my path—he has fled,
    No one knows whither; and if he had not,
    His claims alone were too contemptible
    To stand.—Why do you smile?

    Ulr.
                                            At your vain fears:
    A poor man almost in his grasp—a child
    Of doubtful birth—can startle a grandee!

    Stral.
    All 's to be feared, where all is to be gained.

    Ulr.
    True; and aught done to save or to obtain it.

    Stral.
    You have harped the very string next to my heart.

    I may depend upon you?

    Ulr.
                                            'Twere too late
    To doubt it.

    Stral.
                                            Let no foolish pity shake
    Your bosom (for the appearance of the man
    Is pitiful)—he is a wretch, as likely
    To have robbed me as the fellow more suspected,
    Except that circumstance is less against him;
    He being lodged far off, and in a chamber
    Without approach to mine; and, to say truth,
    I think too well of blood allied to mine,
    To deem he would descend to such an act:
    Besides, he was a soldier, and a brave one
    Once—though too rash.

    Ulr.
                                            And they, my Lord, we know
    By our experience, never plunder till
    They knock the brains out first—which makes then heirs,
    Not thieves. The dead, who feel nought, can lose nothing,
    Nor e'er be robbed: their spoils are a bequest—
    No more.

    Stral.
                                            Go to! you are a wag. But say
    I may be sure you'll keep an eye on this man,
    And let me know his slightest movement towards
    Concealment or escape.

    Ulr.
                                            You may be sure
    You yourself could not watch him more than I
    Will be his sentinel.

    Stral.
                                            By this you make me
    Yours, and for ever.

    Ulr.
                                            Such is my intention.
                                            [Exeunt.

    ACT III.

    Scene I.

    —A Hall in the same Palace, from whence the secret Passage leads.

    Enter Werner and Gabor.

    Gab.
    Sir, I have told my tale: if it so please you
    To give me refuge for a few hours, well—
    If not, I'll try my fortune elsewhere.

    Wer.
                                            How
    Can I, so wretched, give to Misery
    A shelter?—wanting such myself as much
    As e'er the hunted deer a covert—

    Gab.
                                            Or
    The wounded lion his cool cave. Methinks
    You rather look like one would turn at bay,
    And rip the hunter's entrails.

    Wer.
                        Ah!

    Gab.
                                            I care not
    If it be so, being much disposed to do
    The same myself. But will you shelter me?
    I am oppressed like you—and poor like you—
    Disgraced—

    Wer. (abruptly).
                                            Who told you that I was disgraced?

    Gab.
    No one; nor did I say you were so: with
    Your poverty my likeness ended; but
    I said I was so—and would add, with truth,
    As undeservedly as you.

    Wer.
                                            Again!
    As I?

    Gab.
                                            Or any other honest man.
    What the devil would you have? You don't believe me
    Guilty of this base theft?

    Wer.
                                            No, no—I cannot.

    Gab.
    Why that's my heart of honour! yon young gallant—
    Your miserly Intendant and dense noble—
    All—all suspected me; and why? because
    I am the worst clothed, and least named amongst them;

    Although, were Momus' lattice in your breasts,
    My soul might brook to open it more widely
    Than theirs: but thus it is—you poor and helpless—
    Both still more than myself.

    Wer.
                                            How know you that?

    Gab.
    You're right: I ask for shelter at the hand
    Which I call helpless; if you now deny it,
    I were well paid. But you, who seem to have proved
    The wholesome bitterness of life, know well,
    By sympathy, that all the outspread gold
    Of the New World the Spaniard boasts about
    Could never tempt the man who knows its worth,
    Weighed at its proper value in the balance,
    Save in such guise (and there I grant its power,
    Because I feel it,) as may leave no nightmare
    Upon his heart o' nights.

    Wer.
                                            What do you mean?

    Gab.
    Just what I say; I thought my speech was plain:
    You are no thief—nor I—and, as true men,
    Should aid each other.

    Wer.
                                            It is a damned world, sir.

    Gab.
    So is the nearest of the two next, as
    The priests say (and no doubt they should know best),
    Therefore I'll stick by this—as being loth
    To suffer martyrdom, at least with such
    An epitaph as larceny upon my tomb.
    It is but a night's lodging which I crave;
    To-morrow I will try the waters, as
    The dove did—trusting that they have abated.

    Wer.
    Abated? Is there hope of that?

    Gab.
                                            There was
    At noontide.

    Wer.
                        Then we may be safe.

    Gab.
                                            Are you

    In peril?

    Wer.
                                            Poverty is ever so.

    Gab.
    That I know by long practice. Will you not
    Promise to make mine less?

    Wer.
                                            Your poverty?

    Gab.
    No—you don't look a leech for that disorder;
    I meant my peril only: you've a roof,
    And I have none; I merely seek a covert.

    Wer.
    Rightly; for how should such a wretch as I
    Have gold?

    Gab.
                                            Scarce honestly, to say the truth on't,
    Although I almost wish you had the Baron's.

    Wer.
    Dare you insinuate?

    Gab.
                        What?

    Wer.
                                            Are you aware
    To whom you speak?

    Gab.
                                            No; and I am not used
    Greatly to care. (A noise heard without.) But hark! they come!

    Wer.
                                            Who come?

    Gab.
    The Intendant and his man-hounds after me:
    I'd face them—but it were in vain to expect
    Justice at hands like theirs. Where shall I go?
    But show me any place. I do assure you,
    If there be faith in man, I am most guiltless:
    Think if it were your own case!

    Wer. (aside).
                                            Oh, just God!
    Thy hell is not hereafter! Am I dust still?

    Gab.
    I see you're moved; and it shows well in you:
    I may live to requite it.

    Wer.
                                            Are you not
    A spy of Stralenheim's?

    Gab.
                                            Not I! and if
    I were, what is there to espy in you?
    Although, I recollect, his frequent question
    About you and your spouse might lead to some
    Suspicion; but you best know—what—and why.
    I am his deadliest foe.

    Wer.
                        You?

    Gab.
                                            After such
    A treatment for the service which in part

    I rendered him, I am his enemy:
    If you are not his friend you will assist me.

    Wer.
    I will.

    Gab.
                        But how?

    Wer. (showing the panel).
                                            There is a secret spring:
    Remember, I discovered it by chance,
    And used it but for safety.

    Gab.
                                            Open it,
    And I will use it for the same.

    Wer.
                                            I found it,
    As I have said: it leads through winding walls,
    (So thick as to bear paths within their ribs,
    Yet lose no jot of strength or stateliness,)
    And hollow cells, and obscure niches, to
    I know not whither; you must not advance:
    Give me your word.

    Gab.
                                            It is unecessary:
    How should I make my way in darkness through
    A Gothic labyrinth of unknown windings?

    Wer.
    Yes, but who knows to what place it may lead?
    I know not—(mark you!)—but who knows it might not
    Lead even into the chamber of your foe?
    So strangely were contrived these galleries
    By our Teutonic fathers in old days,
    When man built less against the elements
    Than his next neighbour. You must not advance
    Beyond the two first windings; if you do
    (Albeit I never passed them,) I'll not answer
    For what you may be led to.

    Gab.
                                            But I will.
    A thousand thanks!

    Wer.
                                            You'll find the spring more obvious
    On the other side; and, when you would return,
    It yields to the least touch.

    Gab.
                                            I'll in—farewell!
                                            [Gabor goes in by the secret panel.

    Wer. (solus).
    What have I done? Alas! what had I done
    Before to make this fearful? Let it be
    Still some atonement that I save the man,

    Those sacrifice had saved perhaps my own—
    They come! to seek elsewhere what is before them!

    Enter Idenstein and Others.

    Iden.
    Is he not here? He must have vanished then
    Through the dim Gothic glass by pious aid
    Of pictured saints upon the red and yellow
    Casements, through which the sunset streams like sunrise
    On long pearl-coloured beards and crimson crosses.
    And gilded crosiers, and crossed arms, and cowls,
    And helms, and twisted armour, and long swords,
    All the fantastic furniture of windows
    Dim with brave knights and holy hermits, whose
    Likeness and fame alike rest in some panes
    Of crystal, which each rattling wind proclaims
    As frail as any other life or glory.
    He's gone, however.

    Wer.
                        Whom do you seek?

    Iden.
                                            A villain.

    Wer.
    Why need you come so far, then?

    Iden.
                                            In the search
    Of him who robbed the Baron.

    Wer.
                                            Are you sure
    You have divined the man?

    Iden.
                                            As sure as you
    Stand there: but where 's he gone?

    Wer.
                        Who?

    Iden.
                                            He we sought.

    Wer.
    You see he is not here.

    Iden.
                                            And yet we traced him
    Up to this hall. Are you accomplices?
    Or deal you in the black art?

    Wer.
                                            I deal plainly,
    To many men the blackest.

    Iden.
                                            It may be
    I have a question or two for yourself
    Hereafter; but we must continue now
    Our search for t'other.

    Wer.
                                            You had best begin
    Your inquisition now: I may not be

    So patient always.

    Iden.
                                            I should like to know,
    In good sooth, if you really are the man
    That Stralenheim 's in quest of.

    Wer.
                                            Insolent!
    Said you not that he was not here?

    Iden.
                                            Yes, one;
    But there 's another whom he tracks more keenly,
    And soon, it may be, with authority
    Both paramount to his and mine. But come!
    Bustle, my boys! we are at fault.
                                            [Exit Idenstein and Attendants.

    Wer.
                                            In what
    A maze hath my dim destiny involved me!
    And one base sin hath done me less ill than
    The leaving undone one far greater. Down,
    Thou busy devil, rising in my heart!
    Thou art too late! I'll nought to do with blood.

    Enter Ulric.

    Ulr.
    I sought you, father.

    Wer.
                                            Is't not dangerous?

    Ulr.
    No; Stralenheim is ignorant of all
    Or any of the ties between us: more—
    He sends me here a spy upon your actions,
    Deeming me wholly his.

    Wer.
                                            I cannot think it:
    'Tis but a snare he winds about us both,
    To swoop the sire and son at once.

    Ulr.
                                            I cannot
    Pause in each petty fear, and stumble at
    The doubts that rise like briers in our path,
    But must break through them, as an unarmed carle
    Would, though with naked limbs, were the wolf rustling
    In the same thicket where he hewed for bread.
    Nets are for thrushes, eagles are not caught so:
    We'll overfly or rend them.

    Wer.
                                            Show me how?

    Ulr.
    Can you not guess?

    Wer.
                        I cannot.

    Ulr.
                                            That is strange.
    Came the thought ne'er into your mind last night?

    Wer.
    I understand you not.

    Ulr.
                                            Then we shall never
    More understand each other. But to change
    The topic—

    Wer.
                                            You mean to pursue it, as
    Tis of our safety.

    Ulr.
                                            Right; I stand corrected.
    I see the subject now more clearly, and
    Our general situation in its bearings.
    The waters are abating; a few hours
    Will bring his summoned myrmidons from Frankfort,
    When you will be a prisoner, perhaps worse,
    And I an outcast, bastardised by practice
    Of this same Baron to make way for him.

    Wer.
    And now your remedy! I thought to escape
    By means of this accurséd gold; but now
    I dare not use it, show it, scarce look on it.
    Methinks it wears upon its face my guilt
    For motto, not the mintage of the state;
    And, for the sovereign's head, my own begirt
    With hissing snakes, which curl around my temples,
    And cry to all beholders, Lo! a villain!

    Ulr.
    You must not use it, at least now; but take
    This ring.
                                            [He gives Werner a jewel.

    Wer.
                        A gem! It was my father's!

    Ulr.
                                            And
    As such is now your own. With this you must
    Bribe the Intendant for his old caleche
    And horses to pursue your route at sunrise,
    Together with my mother.

    Wer.
                                            And leave you,
    So lately found, in peril too?

    Ulr.
                                            Fear nothing!
    The only fear were if we fled together,
    For that would make our ties beyond all doubt.
    The waters only lie in flood between
    This burgh and Frankfort; so far 's in our favour
    The route on to Bohemia, though encumbered,
    Is not impassable; and when you gain

    A few hours' start, the difficulties will be
    The same to your pursuers. Once beyond
    The frontier, and you're safe.

    Wer.
                                            My noble boy!

    Ulr.
    Hush! hush! no transports: we'll indulge in them
    In Castle Siegendorf! Display no gold:
    Show Idenstein the gem (I know the man,
    And have looked through him): it will answer thus
    A double purpose. Stralenheim lost gold
    No jewel: therefore it could not be his;
    And then the man who was possest of this
    Can hardly be suspected of abstracting
    The Baron's coin, when he could thus convert
    This ring to more than Stralenheim has lost
    By his last night's slumber. Be not over timid
    In your address, nor yet too arrogant,
    And Idenstein will serve you.

    Wer.
                                            I will follow
    In all things your direction.

    Ulr.
                                            I would have
    Spared you the trouble; but had I appeared
    To take an interest in you, and still more
    By dabbling with a jewel in your favour,
    All had been known at once.

    Wer.
                                            My guardian angel!
    This overpays the past. But how wilt thou
    Fare in our absence?

    Ulr.
                                            Stralenheim knows nothing
    Of me as aught of kindred with yourself.
    I will but wait a day or two with him
    To lull all doubts, and then rejoin my father.

    Wer.
    To part no more!

    Ulr.
                                            I know not that; but at
    The least we'll meet again once more.

    Wer.
                                            My boy!
    My friend! my only child, and sole preserver!
    Oh, do not hate me!

    Ulr.
                        Hate my father!

    Wer.
                                            Aye,
    My father hated me. Why not my son?

    Ulr.
    Your father knew you not as I do.

    Wer.
                                            Scorpions
    Are in thy words! Thou know me? in this guise
    Thou canst not know me, I am not myself;
    Yet (hate me not) I will be soon.

    Ulr.
                                            I'll wait!
    In the mean time be sure that all a son
    Can do for parents shall be done for mine.

    Wer.
    I see it, and I feel it; yet I feel
    Further—that you despise me.

    Ulr.
                                            Wherefore should I?

    Wer.
    Must I repeat my humiliation?

    Ulr.
                                            No!
    I have fathomed it and you. But let us talk
    Of this no more. Or, if it must be ever,
    Not now. Your error has redoubled all
    The present difficulties of our house
    At secret war with that of Stralenheim:
    All we have now to think of is to baffle
    Him. I have shown one way.

    Wer.
                                            The only one,
    And I embrace it, as I did my son,
    Who showed himself and father's safety in
    One day.

    Ulr.
                                            You shall be safe; let that suffice.
    Would Stralenheim's appearance in Bohemia
    Disturb your right, or mine, if once we were
    Admitted to our lands?

    Wer.
                                            Assuredly,
    Situate as we are now; although the first
    Possessor might, as usual, prove the strongest—
    Especially the next in blood.

    Ulr.
                                            Blood! 'tis
    A word of many meanings; in the veins,
    And out of them, it is a different thing—
    And so it should be, when the same in blood
    (As it is called) are aliens to each other,
    Like Theban brethren: when a part is bad,
    A few spilt ounces purify the rest.

    Wer.
    I do not apprehend you.

    Ulr.
                                            That may be—
    And should, perhaps—and yet—but get ye ready;
    You and my mother must away to-night.
    Here comes the Intendant: sound him with the gem;
    'Twill sink into his venal soul like lead
    Into the deep, and bring up slime and mud,
    And ooze, too, from the bottom, as the lead doth
    With its greased understratum; but no less
    Will serve to warn our vessels through these shoals.
    The freight is rich, so heave the line in time!
    Farewell! I scarce have time, but yet your hand,
    My father!—

    Wer.
                        Let me embrace thee!

    Ulr.
                                            We may be
    Observed: subdue your nature to the hour!
    Keep off from me as from your foe!

    Wer.
                                            Accursed
    Be he who is the stifling cause which smothers
    The best and sweetest feeling of our hearts;
    At such an hour too!

    Ulr.
                                            Yes, curse—it will ease you!
    Here is the Intendant.

    Enter Idenstein.


                                            Master Idenstein,
    How fare you in your purpose? Have you caught
    The rogue?

    Iden.
                        No, faith!

    Ulr.
                                            Well, there are plenty more:
    You may have better luck another chase.
    Where is the Baron?

    Iden.
                                            Gone back to his chamber:
    And now I think on't, asking after you
    With nobly-born impatience.

    Ulr.
                                            Your great men

    Must be answered on the instant, as the bound
    Of the stung steed replies unto the spur:
    Tis well they have horses, too; for if they had not,
    I fear that men must draw their chariots, as
    They say kings did Sesostris.

    Iden.
                                            Who was he?

    Ulr.
    An old Bohemian—an imperial gipsy.

    Iden.
    A gipsy or Bohemian, 'tis the same,
    For they pass by both names. And was he one?

    Ulr.
    I've heard so; but I must take leave. Intendant,
    Your servant!—Werner (to Werner slightly), if that be your name, Yours.
                                            [Exit Ulric.

    Iden.
                                            A well-spoken, pretty-faced young man!
    And prettily behaved! He knows his station,
    You see, sir: how he gave to each his due
    Precedence!

    Wer.
                                            I perceived it, and applaud
    His just discernment and your own.

    Iden.
                                            That's well—
    That's very well. You also know your place, too;
    And yet I don't know that I know your place.

    Wer. (showing the ring).
    Would this assist your knowledge?

    Iden.
                                            How!—What!—Eh!
    A jewel!

    Wer.
                                            'Tis your own on one condition.

    Iden.
    Mine!—Name it!

    Wer.
                                            That hereafter you permit me
    At thrice its value to redeem it: 'tis
    A family ring.

    Iden.
                                            A family!—yours! —a gem!
    I'm breathless!

    Wer.
                                            You must also furnish me,
    An hour ere daybreak, with all means to quit
    This place.

    Iden.
                                            But is it real? Let me look on it:
    Diamond, by all that's glorious!

    Wer.
                                            Come, I'll trust you:
    You have guessed, no doubt, that I was born above
    My present seeming.

    Iden.
                                            I can't say I did,
    Though this looks like it: this is the true breeding
    Of gentle blood!

    Wer.
                                            I have important reasons
    For wishing to continue privily
    My journey hence.

    Iden.
                                            So then you are the man
    Whom Stralenheim 's in quest of?

    Wer.
                                            I am not;
    But being taken for him might conduct
    So much embarrassment to me just now,
    And to the Baron's self hereafter—'tis
    To spare both that I would avoid all bustle.

    Iden.
    Be you the man or no, 'tis not my business;
    Besides, I never could obtain the half
    From this proud, niggardly noble, who would raise
    The country for some missing bits of coin,
    And never offer a precise reward—
    But this!—another look!

    Wer.
                                            Gaze on it freely;
    At day-dawn it is yours.

    Iden.
                                            Oh, thou sweet sparkler!
    Thou more than stone of the philosopher!
    Thou touch-stone of Philosophy herself!
    Thou bright eye of the Mine! thou loadstar of
    The soul! the true magnetic Pole to which
    All hearts point duly north, like trembling needles!
    Thou flaming Spirit of the Earth! which, sitting
    High on the Monarch's Diadem, attractest
    More worship than the majesty who sweats
    Beneath the crown which makes his head ache, like
    Millions of hearts which bleed to lend it lustre!
    Shalt thou be mine? I am, methinks, already
    A little king, a lucky alchymist!—
    A wise magician, who has bound the devil
    Without the forfeit of his soul. But come,
    Werner, or what else?

    Wer.
                                            Call me Werner still;
    You may yet know me by a loftier title.

    Iden.
    I do believe in thee! thou art the spirit
    Of whom I long have dreamed in a low garb.—
    But come, I'll serve thee; thou shalt be as free
    As air, despite the waters; let us hence:
    I'll show thee I am honest—(oh, thou jewel!)
    Thou shalt be furnished, Werner, with such means
    Of flight, that if thou wert a snail, not birds
    Should overtake thee.—Let me gaze again!
    I have a foster-brother in the mart
    Of Hamburgh skilled in precious stones. How many
    Carats may it weigh?—Come, Werner, I will wing thee.
                                            [Exeunt.

    Scene II.

    —Stralenheim's Chamber.

    Stralenheim and Fritz.

    Fritz.
    All 's ready, my good Lord!

    Stral.
                                            I am not sleepy,
    And yet I must to bed: I fain would say
    To rest, but something heavy on my spirit,
    Too dull for wakefulness, too quick for slumber,
    Sits on me as a cloud along the sky,
    Which will not let the sunbeams through, nor yet
    Descend in rain and end, but spreads itself
    'Twixt earth and heaven, like envy between man
    And man, an everlasting mist:—I will
    Unto my pillow.

    Fritz.
                                            May you rest there well!

    Stral.
    I feel, and fear, I shall.

    Fritz.
                                            And wherefore fear?

    Stral.
    I know not why, and therefore do fear more,
    Because an undescribable—but 'tis
    All folly. Were the locks as I desired
    Changed, to-day, of this chamber? for last night's
    Adventure makes it needful.

    Fritz.
                                            Certainly,
    According to your order, and beneath

    The inspection of myself and the young Saxon
    Who saved your life. I think they call him "Ulric."

    Stral.
    You think! you supercilious slave! what right
    Have you to tax your memory, which should be
    Quick, proud, and happy to retain the name
    Of him who saved your master, as a litany
    Whose daily repetition marks your duty.—
    Get hence; "You think," indeed! you, who stood still
    Howling and dripping on the bank, whilst I
    Lay dying, and the stranger dashed aside
    The roaring torrent, and restored me to
    Thank him—and despise you. "You think!" and scarce
    Can recollect his name! I will not waste
    More words on you. Call me betimes.

    Fritz.
                                            Good night!
    I trust to-morrow will restore your Lordship
    To renovated strength and temper.
                                            [The scene closes.

    Scene III.

    —The secret Passage.

    Gab. (solus).
                                            Four—
    Five—six hours have I counted, like the guard
    Of outposts, on the never-merry clock,
    That hollow tongue of time, which, even when
    It sounds for joy, takes something from enjoyment
    With every clang. 'Tis a perpetual knell,
    Though for a marriage-feast it rings: each stroke
    Peals for a hope the less; the funeral note
    Of Love deep-buried, without resurrection,
    In the grave of Possession; while the knoll
    Of long-lived parents finds a jovial echo
    To triple time in the son's ear.
                                            I'm cold—
    I'm dark;—I've blown my fingers—numbered o'er
    And o'er my steps—and knocked my head against
    Some fifty buttresses—and roused the rats

    And bats in general insurrection, till
    Their curséd pattering feet and whirling wings
    Leave me scarce hearing for another sound.
    A light! It is at distance (if I can
    Measure in darkness distance): but it blinks
    As through a crevice or a key-hole, in
    The inhibited direction: I must on,
    Nevertheless, from curiosity.
    A distant lamp-light is an incident
    In such a den as this. Pray Heaven it lead me
    To nothing that may tempt me! Else—Heaven aid me
    To obtain or to escape it! Shining still!
    Were it the star of Lucifer himself,
    Or he himself girt with its beams, I could
    Contain no longer. Softly: mighty well!
    That corner 's turned—so—ah! no;—right! it draws
    Nearer. Here is a darksome angle—so,
    That 's weathered.—Let me pause.—Suppose it leads
    Into some greater danger than that which
    I have escaped—no matter, 'tis a new one;
    And novel perils, like fresh mistresses,
    Wear more magnetic aspects:—I will on,
    And be it where it may—I have my dagger
    Which may protect me at a pinch.—Burn still,
    Thou little light! Thou art my ignis fatuus!
    My stationary Will-o'-the-wisp!—So! so!
    He hears my invocation, and fails not.
                                            [The scene closes.

    Scene IV.

    —A Garden.

    Enter Werner.

    Wer.
    I could not sleep—and now the hour's at hand!
    All's ready. Idenstein has kept his word;
    And stationed in the outskirts of the town,
    Upon the forest's edge, the vehicle
    Awaits us. Now the dwindling stars begin
    To pale in heaven; and for the last time I

    Look on these horrible walls. Oh! never, never
    Shall I forget them. Here I came most poor,
    But not dishonoured: and I leave them with
    A stain,—if not upon my name, yet in
    My heart!—a never-dying canker-worm,
    Which all the coming splendour of the lands,
    And rights, and sovereignty of Siegendorf
    Can scarcely lull a moment. I must find
    Some means of restitution, which would ease
    My soul in part: but how, without discovery?—
    It must be done, however; and I'll pause
    Upon the method the first hour of safety.
    The madness of my misery led to this
    Base infamy; repentance must retrieve it:
    I will have nought of Stralenheim's upon
    My spirit, though he would grasp all of mine;
    Lands, freedom, life,—and yet he sleeps as soundly
    Perhaps, as infancy, with gorgeous curtains
    Spread for his canopy, o'er silken pillows,
    Such as when—Hark! what noise is that? Again!
    The branches shake; and some loose stones have fallen
    From yonder terrace.
                                            [Ulricleaps down from the terrace.

                                            Ulric! ever welcome!
    Thrice welcome now! this filial—

    Ulr.
                                            Stop! before
    We approach, tell me—

    Wer.
                        Why look you so?

    Ulr.
                                            Do I
    Behold my father, or—

    Wer.
                        What?

    Ulr.
                                            An assassin?

    Wer.
    Insane or insolent!

    Ulr.
                                            Reply, sir, as
    You prize your life, or mine!

    Wer.
                                            To what must I
    Answer?

    Ulr.
                                            Are you or are you not the assassin

    Of Stralenheim?

    Wer.
                                            I never was as yet
    The murderer of any man. What mean you?

    Ulr.
    Did not you this night (as the night before)
    Retrace the secret passage? Did you not
    Again revisit Stralenheim's chamber? and—
                                            [Ulric pauses.

    Wer.
    Proceed.

    Ulr.
                        Died he not by your hand?

    Wer.
                                            Great God!

    Ulr.
    You are innocent, then! my father 's innocent!
    Embrace me! Yes,—your tone—your look—yes, yes,—
    Yet say so.

    Wer.
                                            If I e'er, in heart or mind,
    Conceived deliberately such a thought,
    But rather strove to trample back to hell
    Such thoughts—if e'er they glared a moment through
    The irritation of my oppressed spirit—
    May Heaven be shut for ever from my hopes,
    As from mine eyes!

    Ulr.
                                            But Stralenheim is dead.

    Wer.
    'Tis horrible! 'tis hideous, as 'tis hateful!—
    But what have I to do with this?

    Ulr.
                                            No bolt
    Is forced; no violence can be detected,
    Save on his body. Part of his own household
    Have been alarmed; but as the Intendant is
    Absent, I took upon myself the care
    Of mustering the police. His chamber has,
    Past doubt, been entered secretly. Excuse me,
    If nature—

    Wer.
                                            Oh, my boy! what unknown woes
    Of dark fatality, like clouds, are gathering
    Above our house!

    Ulr.
                                            My father! I acquit you!
    But will the world do so? will even the judge,
    If—but you must away this instant.

    Wer.
                                            No!
    I'll face it. Who shall dare suspect me?

    Ulr.
                                            Yet
    You had no guests—no visitors—no life

    Breathing around you, save my mother's?

    Wer.
                                            Ah!
    The Hungarian?

    Ulr.
                                            He is gone! he disappeared
    Ere sunset.

    Wer.
                                            No; I hid him in that very
    Concealed and fatal gallery.

    Ulr.
                                            There I'll find him.
                                            [Ulric is going.

    Wer.
    It is too late: he had left the palace ere
    I quitted it. I found the secret panel
    Open, and the doors which lead from that hall
    Which masks it: I but thought he had snatched the silent
    And favourable moment to escape
    The myrmidons of Idenstein, who were
    Dogging him yester-even.

    Ulr.
                                            You reclosed
    The panel?

    Wer.
                                            Yes; and not without reproach
    (And inner trembling for the avoided peril)
    At his dull heedlessness, in leaving thus
    His shelterer's asylum to the risk
    Of a discovery.

    Ulr.
                                            You are sure you closed it?

    Wer.
    Certain.

    Ulr.
                                            That 's well; but had been better, if
    You ne'er had turned it to a den for—
                                            [He pauses.

    Wer.
                                            Thieves!
    Thou wouldst say: I must bear it, and deserve it;
    But not—

    Ulr.
                                            No, father; do not speak of this:
    This is no hour to think of petty crimes,
    But to prevent the consequence of great ones.
    Why would you shelter this man?

    Wer.
                                            Could I shun it?
    A man pursued by my chief foe; disgraced
    For my own crime: a victim to my safety,
    Imploring a few hours' concealment from
    The very wretch who was the cause he needed
    Such refuge. Had he been a wolf, I could not
    Have in such circumstances thrust him forth.

    Ulr.
    And like the wolf he hath repaid you. But
    It is too late to ponder thus:—you must
    Set out ere dawn. I will remain here to
    Trace the murderer, if 'tis possible.

    Wer.
    But this my sudden flight will give the Moloch
    Suspicion: two new victims in the lieu
    Of one, if I remain. The fled Hungarian,
    Who seems the culprit, and—

    Ulr.
                                            Who seems? Who else
    Can be so?

    Wer.
                                            Not I, though just now you doubted—
    You, my son!—doubted—

    Ulr.
                                            And do you doubt of him
    The fugitive?

    Wer.
                                            Boy! since I fell into
    The abyss of crime (though not of such crime), I,
    Having seen the innocent oppressed for me,
    May doubt even of the guilty's guilt. Your heart
    Is free, and quick with virtuous wrath to accuse
    Appearances; and views a criminal
    In Innocence's shadow, it may be,
    Because 'tis dusky.

    Ulr.
                                            And if I do so,
    What will mankind, who know you not, or knew
    But to oppress? You must not stand the hazard.
    Away!—I'll make all easy. Idenstein
    Will for his own sake and his jewel's hold
    His peace—he also is a partner in
    Your flight—moreover—

    Wer.
                                            Fly! and leave my name
    Linked with the Hungarian's, or, preferred as poorest,
    To bear the brand of bloodshed?

    Ulr.
                                            Pshaw! leave any thing
    Except our fathers' sovereignty and castles,
    For which you have so long panted, and in vain!
    What name? You have no name, since that you bear
    Is feigned.

    Wer.
                                            Most true: but still I would not have it
    Engraved in crimson in men's memories,
    Though in this most obscure abode of men—
    Besides, the search—

    Ulr.
                                            I will provide against
    Aught that can touch you. No one knows you here
    As heir of Siegendorf: if Idenstein
    Suspects, 'tis but suspicion, and he is
    A fool: his folly shall have such employment,
    Too, that the unknown Werner shall give way
    To nearer thoughts of self. The laws (if e'er
    Laws reached this village) are all in abeyance
    With the late general war of thirty years,
    Or crushed, or rising slowly from the dust,
    To which the march of armies trampled them.
    Stralenheim, although noble, is unheeded
    Here, save as such—without lands, influence,
    Save what hath perished with him. Few prolong
    A week beyond their funeral rites their sway
    O'er men, unless by relatives, whose interest
    Is roused: such is not here the case; he died
    Alone, unknown,—a solitary grave,
    Obscure as his deserts, without a scutcheon,
    Is all he'll have, or wants. If I discover
    The assassin, 'twill be well—if not, believe me,
    None else; though all the full-fed train of menials
    May howl above his ashes (as they did
    Around him in his danger on the Oder),
    Will no more stir a finger now than then.
    Hence! hence! I must not hear your answer.—Look!
    The stars are almost faded, and the grey
    Begins to grizzle the black hair of night.
    You shall not answer:—Pardon me that I
    Am peremptory: 'tis your son that speaks,
    Your long-lost, late-found son.—Let 's call my mother!
    Softly and swiftly step, and leave the rest
    To me: I'll answer for the event as far
    As regards you, and that is the chief point,
    As my first duty, which shall be observed.
    We'll meet in Castle Siegendorf—once more
    Our banners shall be glorious! Think of that
    Alone, and leave all other thoughts to me,
    Whose youth may better battle with them—Hence!
    And may your age be happy!—I will kiss
    My mother once more, then Heaven's speed be with you!

    Wer.
    This counsel 's safe—but is it honourable?

    Ulr.
    To save a father is a child's chief honour.
                                            [Exeunt.

    ACT IV.

    Scene I.

    —A Gothic Hall in the Castle of Siegendorf, near Prague.

    Enter Eric and Henrick, Retainers of the Count.

    Eric.
    So, better times are come at last; to these
    Old walls new masters and high wassail—both
    A long desideratum.

    Hen.
                                            Yes, for masters,
    It might be unto those who long for novelty,
    Though made by a new grave: but, as for wassail,
    Methinks the old Count Siegendorf maintained
    His feudal hospitality as high
    As e'er another Prince of the empire.

    Eric.
                                            Why
    For the mere cup and trencher, we no doubt
    Fared passing well; but as for merriment
    And sport, without which salt and sauces season
    The cheer but scantily, our sizings were
    Even of the narrowest.

    Hen.
                                            The old count loved not
    The roar of revel; are you sure that this does?

    Eric.
    As yet he hath been courteous as he 's bounteous,
    And we all love him.

    Hen.
                                            His reign is as yet
    Hardly a year o'erpast its honeymoon,
    And the first year of sovereigns is bridal:
    Anon, we shall perceive his real sway
    And moods of mind.

    Eric.
                                            Pray Heaven he keep the present!
    Then his brave son, Count Ulric—there 's a knight!
    Pity the wars are o'er!

    Hen.
                        Why so?

    Eric.
                                            Look on him!

    And answer that yourself.

    Hen.
                                            He 's very youthful,
    And strong and beautiful as a young tiger.

    Eric.
    That 's not a faithful vassal's likeness.

    Hen.
                                            But
    Perhaps a true one.

    Eric.
                                            Pity, as I said,
    The wars are over: in the hall, who like
    Count Ulric for a well-supported pride,
    Which awes, but yet offends not? in the field,
    Who like him with his spear in hand, when gnashing
    His tusks, and ripping up, from right to left,
    The howling hounds, the boar makes for the thicket?
    Who backs a horse, or bears a hawk, or wears
    A sword like him? Whose plume nods knightlier?

    Hen.
    No one's, I grant you. Do not fear, if war
    Be long in coming, he is of that kind
    Will make it for himself, if he hath not
    Already done as much.

    Eric.
                                            What do you mean?

    Hen.
    You can't deny his train of followers
    (But few our native fellow-vassals born
    On the domain) are such a sort of knaves
    As—
                                            [Pauses.

    Eric.
                        What?

    Hen.
                                            The war (you love so much) leaves living.
    Like other parents, she spoils her worst children.

    Eric.
    Nonsense! they are all brave iron-visaged fellows,
    Such as old Tilly loved.

    Hen.
                                            And who loved Tilly?
    Ask that at Magdebourg—or, for that matter,
    Wallenstein either;—they are gone to—

    Eric.
                                            Rest!
    But what beyond 'tis not ours to pronounce.

    Hen.
    I wish they had left us something of their rest:
    The country (nominally now at peace)
    Is over-run with—God knows who: they fly
    By night, and disappear with sunrise; but
    Leave us no less desolation, nay, even more,
    Than the most open warfare.

    Eric.
                                            But Count Ulric—
    What has all this to do with him?

    Hen.
                                            With him!
    He—might prevent it. As you say he 's fond
    Of war, why makes he it not on those marauders?

    Eric.
    You'd better ask himself.

    Hen.
                                            I would as soon
    Ask the lion why he laps not milk.

    Eric.
    And here he comes!

    Hen.
                                            The devil! you'll hold your tongue?

    Eric.
    Why do you turn so pale?

    Hen.
                                            'Tis nothing—but
    Be silent.

    Eric.
                                            I will, upon what you have said.

    Hen.
    I assure you I meant nothing,—a mere sport
    Of words, no more; besides, had it been otherwise,
    He is to espouse the gentle Baroness
    Ida of Stralenheim, the late Baron's heiress;
    And she, no doubt, will soften whatsoever
    Of fierceness the late long intestine wars
    Have given all natures, and most unto those
    Who were born in them, and bred up upon
    The knees of Homicide; sprinkled, as it were,
    With blood even at their baptism. Prithee, peace
    On all that I have said!

    Enter Ulric and Rodolph.


                                            Good morrow, count.

    Ulr.
    Good morrow, worthy Henrick. Eric, is
    All ready for the chase?

    Eric.
                                            The dogs are ordered
    Down to the forest, and the vassals out
    To beat the bushes, and the day looks promising.
    Shall I call forth your Excellency's suite?

    What courser will you please to mount?

    Ulr.
                                            The dun,
    Walstein.

    Eric.
                                            I fear he scarcely has recovered
    The toils of Monday: 'twas a noble chase:
    You speared four with your own hand.

    Ulr.
                                            True, good Eric;
    I had forgotten—let it be the grey, then,
    Old Ziska: he has not been out this fortnight.

    Eric.
    He shall be straight caparisoned. How many
    Of your immediate retainers shall
    Escort you?

    Ulr.
                                            I leave that to Weilburgh, our
    Master of the horse.
                                            [Exit Eric.

                        Rodolph!

    Rod.
                        My Lord!

    Ulr.
                                            The news
    Is awkward from the—
                                            [Rodolph points to Henrick.

                                            How now, Henrick? why
    Loiter you here?

    Hen.
                                            For your commands, my Lord.

    Ulr.
    Go to my father, and present my duty,
    And learn if he would aught with me before
    I mount.
                                            [Exit Henrick.

                                            Rodolph, our friends have had a check
    Upon the frontiers of Franconia, and
    'Tis rumoured that the column sent against them
    Is to be strengthened. I must join them soon.

    Rod.
    Best wait for further and more sure advices.

    Ulr.
    I mean it—and indeed it could not well
    Have fallen out at a time more opposite
    To all my plans.

    Rod.
                                            It will be difficult
    To excuse your absence to the Count your father.

    Ulr.
    Yes, but the unsettled state of our domain
    In high Silesia will permit and cover
    My journey. In the mean time, when we are
    Engaged in the chase, draw off the eighty men
    Whom Wolffe leads—keep the forests on your route:

    You know it well?

    Rod.
                                            As well as on that night
    When we—

    Ulr.
                                            We will not speak of that until
    We can repeat the same with like success:
    And when you have joined, give Rosenberg this letter.
                                            [Gives a letter.

    Add further, that I have sent this slight addition
    To our force with you and Wolffe, as herald of
    My coming, though I could but spare them ill
    At this time, as my father loves to keep
    Full numbers of retainers round the castle,
    Until this marriage, and its feasts and fooleries,
    Are rung out with its peal of nuptial nonsense.

    Rod.
    I thought you loved the lady Ida?

    Ulr.
                                            Why,
    I do so—but it follows not from that
    I would bind in my youth and glorious years,
    So brief and burning, with a lady's zone,
    Although 'twere that of Venus:—but I love her,
    As woman should be loved—fairly and solely.

    Rod.
    And constantly?

    Ulr.
                                            I think so; for I love
    Nought else.—But I have not the time to pause
    Upon these gewgaws of the heart. Great things
    We have to do ere long. Speed! speed! good Rodolph!

    Rod.
    On my return, however, I shall find
    The Baroness Ida lost in Countess Siegendorf?

    Ulr.
    Perhaps: my father wishes it, and, sooth,
    'Tis no bad policy: this union with
    The last bud of the rival branch at once
    Unites the future and destroys the past.

    Rod.
    Adieu.

    Ulr.
                                            Yet hold—we had better keep together
    Until the chase begins; then draw thou off,
    And do as I have said.

    Rod.
                                            I will. But to
    Return—'twas a most kind act in the count
    Your father to send up to Konigsberg
    For this fair orphan of the Baron, and
    To hail her as his daughter.

    Ulr.
                                            Wondrous kind!
    Especially as little kindness till
    Then grew between them.

    Rod.
                                            The late Baron died
    Of a fever, did he not?

    Ulr.
                                            How should I know?

    Rod.
    I have heard it whispered there was something strange
    About his death—and even the place of it
    Is scarcely known.

    Ulr.
                                            Some obscure village on
    The Saxon or Silesian frontier.

    Rod.
                                            He
    Has left no testament—no farewell words?

    Ulr.
    I am neither confessor nor notary,
    So cannot say.

    Rod.
                                            Ah! here 's the lady Ida.

    Enter Ida Stralenheim.

    Ulr.
    You are early, my sweet cousin!

    Ida.
                                            Not too early,
    Dear Ulric, if I do not interrupt you.
    Why do you call me "Cousin?"

    Ulr. (smiling).
                                            Are we not so?

    Ida.
    Yes, but I do not like the name; methinks
    It sounds so cold, as if you thought upon
    Our pedigree, and only weighed our blood.

    Ulr. (starting).
                                            Blood!

    Ida.
    Why does yours start from your cheeks?

    Ulr.
                                            Aye! doth it?

    Ida.
    It doth—but no! it rushes like a torrent
    Even to your brow again.

    Ulr. (recovering himself).
                                            And if it fled,
    It only was because your presence sent it
    Back to my heart, which beats for you, sweet Cousin!

    Ida.
    "Cousin" again.

    Ulr.
                                            Nay, then, I'll call you sister.

    Ida.
    I like that name still worse.—Would we had ne'er
    Been aught of kindred!

    Ulr. (gloomily).
                                            Would we never had!

    Ida.
    Oh, heavens! and can you wish that?

    Ulr.
                                            Dearest Ida!
    Did I not echo your own wish?

    Ida.
                                            Yes, Ulric,
    But then I wished it not with such a glance,
    And scarce knew what I said; but let me be
    Sister, or cousin, what you will, so that
    I still to you am something.

    Ulr.
                                            You shall be
    All—all—

    Ida.
                                            And you to me are so already;
    But I can wait.

    Ulr.
                        Dear Ida!

    Ida.
                                            Call me Ida,
    Your Ida, for I would be yours, none else's—
    Indeed I have none else left, since my poor father—
                                            [She pauses.

    Ulr.
    You have mine—you have me.

    Ida.
                                            Dear Ulric, how I wish
    My father could but view my happiness,
    Which wants but this!

    Ulr.
                        Indeed!

    Ida.
                                            You would have loved him,
    He you; for the brave ever love each other:
    His manner was a little cold, his spirit
    Proud (as is birth's prerogative); but under
    This grave exterior—Would you had known each other!
    Had such as you been near him on his journey,
    He had not died without a friend to soothe
    His last and lonely moments.

    Ulr.
                                            Who says that?

    Ida.
    What?

    Ulr.
                        That he died alone.

    Ida.
                                            The general rumour,
    And disappearance of his servants, who
    Have ne'er returned: that fever was most deadly
    Which swept them all away.

    Ulr.
                                            If they were near him,
    He could not die neglected or alone.

    Ida.
    Alas! what is a menial to a death-bed,
    When the dim eye rolls vainly round for what

    It loves?—They say he died of a fever.

    Ulr.
                                            Say!
    It was so.

    Ida.
                                            I sometimes dream otherwise.

    Ulr.
    All dreams are false.

    Ida.
                                            And yet I see him as
    I see you.

    Ulr.
                        Where?

    Ida.
                                            In sleep—I see him lie
    Pale, bleeding, and a man with a raised knife
    Beside him.

    Ulr.
                                            But you do not see his face?

    Ida (looking at him).
    No! Oh, my God! do you?

    Ulr.
                                            Why do you ask?

    Ida.
    Because you look as if you saw a murderer!

    Ulr. (agitatedly).
    Ida, this is mere childishness; your weakness
    Infects me, to my shame: but as all feelings
    Of yours are common to me, it affects me.
    Prithee, sweet child, change—

    Ida.
                                            Child, indeed! I have
    Full fifteen summers!
                                            [A bugle sounds.

    Rod.
                                            Hark, my Lord, the bugle!

    Ida (peevishly to Rodolph).
    Why need you tell him that? Can he not hear it
    Without your echo?

    Rod.
                                            Pardon me, fair Baroness!

    Ida.
    I will not pardon you, unless you earn it
    By aiding me in my dissuasion of
    Count Ulric from the chase to-day.

    Rod.
                                            You will not,
    Lady, need aid of mine.

    Ulr.
                                            I must not now
    Forgo it.

    Ida.
                        But you shall!

    Ulr.
                        Shall!

    Ida.
                                            Yes, or be
    No true knight.—Come, dear Ulric! yield to me
    In this, for this one day: the day looks heavy,
    And you are turned so pale and ill.

    Ulr.
                                            You jest.

    Ida.
    Indeed I do not:—ask of Rodolph.

    Rod.
                                            Truly,
    My Lord, within this quarter of an hour
    You have changed more than e'er I saw you change
    In years.

    Ulr.
                                            'Tis nothing; but if 'twere, the air
    Would soon restore me. I'm the true cameleon,
    And live but on the atmosphere; your feasts
    In castle halls, and social banquets, nurse not
    My spirit—I'm a forester and breather
    Of the steep mountain-tops, where I love all
    The eagle loves.

    Ida.
                                            Except his prey, I hope.

    Ulr.
    Sweet Ida, wish me a fair chase, and I
    Will bring you six boars' heads for trophies home.

    Ida.
    And will you not stay, then? You shall not go!
    Come! I will sing to you.

    Ulr.
                                            Ida, you scarcely
    Will make a soldier's wife.

    Ida.
                                            I do not wish
    To be so; for I trust these wars are over,
    And you will live in peace on your domains.

    Enter Werner as Count Siegendorf.

    Ulr.
    My father, I salute you, and it grieves me
    With such brief greeting.—You have heard our bugle;
    The vassals wait.

    Sieg.
                                            So let them.—You forget
    To-morrow is the appointed festival
    In Prague for peace restored. You are apt to follow
    The chase with such an ardour as will scarce
    Permit you to return to-day, or if
    Returned, too much fatigued to join to-morrow

    The nobles in our marshalled ranks.

    Ulr.
                                            You, Count,
    Will well supply the place of both—I am not
    A lover of these pageantries.

    Sieg.
                                            No, Ulric;
    It were not well that you alone of all
    Our young nobility—

    Ida.
                                            And far the noblest
    In aspect and demeanour.

    Sieg. (to Ida).
                                            True, dear child,
    Though somewhat frankly said for a fair damsel.—
    But, Ulric, recollect too our position,
    So lately reinstated in our honours.
    Believe me, 'twould be marked in any house,
    But most in ours, that one should be found wanting
    At such a time and place. Besides, the Heaven
    Which gave us back our own, in the same moment
    It spread its peace o'er all, hath double claims
    On us for thanksgiving: first, for our country;
    And next, that we are here to share its blessings.

    Ulr. (aside).
    Devout, too! Well, sir, I obey at once.
    (Then aloud to a servant.) Ludwig, dismiss the train without!
                                            [Exit Ludwig.

    Ida.
                                            And so
    You yield, at once, to him what I for hours
    Might supplicate in vain.

    Sieg. (smiling).
                                            You are not jealous
    Of me, I trust, my pretty rebel! who
    Would sanction disobedience against all
    Except thyself? But fear not; thou shalt rule him
    Hereafter with a fonder sway and firmer.

    Ida.
    But I should like to govern now.

    Sieg.
                                            You shall,
    Your harp, which by the way awaits you with
    The Countess in her chamber. She complains
    That you are a sad truant to your music:
    She attends you.

    Ida.
                                            Then good morrow, my kind kinsmen!
    Ulric, you'll come and hear me?

    Ulr.
                                            By and by.

    Ida.
    Be sure I'll sound it better than your bugles;

    Then pray you be as punctual to its notes:
    I'll play you King Gustavus' march.

    Ulr.
                                            And why not
    Old Tilly's?

    Ida.
                                            Not that monster's! I should think
    My harp-strings rang with groans, and not with music,
    Could aught of his sound on it:—but come quickly;
    Your mother will be eager to receive you.
                                            [Exit Ida.

    Sieg.
    Ulric, I wish to speak with you alone.

    Ulr.
    My time's your vassal.—

    (Aside to Rodolph.)
                                            Rodolph, hence! and do
    As I directed: and by his best speed
    And readiest means let Rosenberg reply.

    Rod.
    Count Siegendorf, command you aught? I am bound
    Upon a journey past the frontier.

    Sieg. (starts).
                                            Ah!—
    Where? on what frontier?

    Rod.
                                            The Silesian, on
    My way—(Aside to Ulric.)Where shall I say?

    Ulr. (aside to Rodolph).
                        To Hamburgh.
                                            (Aside to himself). That
    Word will, I think, put a firm padlock on
    His further inquisition.

    Rod.
                                            Count, to Hamburgh.

    Sieg. (agitated).
    Hamburgh! No, I have nought to do there, nor
    Am aught connected with that city. Then
    God speed you!

    Rod.
                                            Fare ye well, Count Siegendorf!
                                            [Exit Rodolph.

    Sieg.
    Ulric, this man, who has just departed, is
    One of those strange companions whom I fain
    Would reason with you on.

    Ulr.
                                            My Lord, he is
    Noble by birth, of one of the first houses
    In Saxony.

    Sieg.
                                            I talk not of his birth,
    But of his bearing. Men speak lightly of him.

    Ulr.
    So they will do of most men. Even the monarch
    Is not fenced from his chamberlain's slander, or

    The sneer of the last courtier whom he has made
    Great and ungrateful.

    Sieg.
                                            If I must be plain,
    The world speaks more than lightly of this Rodolph:
    They say he is leagued with the "black bands" who still
    Ravage the frontier.

    Ulr.
                                            And will you believe
    The world?

    Sieg.
                        In this case—yes.

    Ulr.
                                            In any case,
    I thought you knew it better than to take
    An accusation for a sentence.

    Sieg.
                                            Son!
    I understand you: you refer to—but
    My destiny has so involved about me
    Her spider web, that I can only flutter
    Like the poor fly, but break it not. Take heed,
    Ulric; you have seen to what the passions led me:
    Twenty long years of misery and famine
    Quenched them not—twenty thousand more, perchance,
    Hereafter (or even here in moments which
    Might date for years, did Anguish make the dial),
    May not obliterate or expiate
    The madness and dishonour of an instant.
    Ulric, be warned by a father!—I was not
    By mine, and you behold me!

    Ulr.
                                            I behold
    The prosperous and belovéd Siegendorf,
    Lord of a Prince's appanage, and honoured
    By those he rules and those he ranks with.

    Sieg.
                                            Ah!
    Why wilt thou call me prosperous, while I fear
    For thee? Belovéd, when thou lovest me not!
    All hearts but one may beat in kindness for me—
    But if my son's is cold!—

    Ulr.
                                            Who dare say that?

    Sieg.
    None else but I, who see it—feel it—keener
    Than would your adversary, who dared say so,
    Your sabre in his heart! But mine survives
    The wound.

    Ulr.
                                            You err. My nature is not given

    To outward fondling: how should it be so,
    After twelve years' divorcement from my parents?

    Sieg.
    And did not I too pass those twelve torn years
    In a like absence? But 'tis vain to urge you—
    Nature was never called back by remonstrance.
    Let's change the theme. I wish you to consider
    That these young violent nobles of high name,
    But dark deeds (aye, the darkest, if all Rumour
    Reports be true), with whom thou consortest,
    Will lead thee—

    Ulr. (impatiently).
                        I'll be led by no man.

    Sieg.
                                            Nor
    Be leader of such, I would hope: at once
    To wean thee from the perils of thy youth
    And haughty spirit, I have thought it well
    That thou shouldst wed the lady Ida—more
    As thou appear'st to love her.

    Ulr.
                                            I have said
    I will obey your orders, were they to
    Unite with Hecate—can a son say more?

    Sieg.
    He says too much in saying this. It is not
    The nature of thine age, nor of thy blood,
    Nor of thy temperament, to talk so coolly,
    Or act so carelessly, in that which is
    The bloom or blight of all men's happiness,
    (For Glory's pillow is but restless, if
    Love lay not down his cheek there): some strong bias,
    Some master fiend is in thy service, to
    Misrule the mortal who believes him slave,
    And makes his every thought subservient; else
    Thou'dst say at once—"I love young Ida, and
    Will wed her;" or, "I love her not, and all
    The powers on earth shall never make me."—So
    Would I have answered.

    Ulr.
                                            Sir, you wed for love.

    Sieg.
    I did, and it has been my only refuge
    In many miseries.

    Ulr.
                                            Which miseries
    Had never been but for this love-match.

    Sieg.
                                            Still
    Against your age and nature! Who at twenty

    E'er answered thus till now?

    Ulr.
                                            Did you not warn me
    Against your own example?

    Sieg.
                                            Boyish sophist!
    In a word, do you love, or love not, Ida?

    Ulr.
    What matters it, if I am ready to
    Obey you in espousing her?

    Sieg.
                                            As far
    As you feel, nothing—but all life for her.
    She's young—all-beautiful—adores you—is
    Endowed with qualities to give happiness,
    Such as rounds common life into a dream
    Of something which your poets cannot paint,
    And (if it were not wisdom to love virtue),
    For which Philosophy might barter Wisdom;
    And giving so much happiness, deserves
    A little in return. I would not have her
    Break her heart with a man who has none to break!
    Or wither on her stalk like some pale rose
    Deserted by the bird she thought a nightingale,
    According to the Orient tale. She is—

    Ulr.
    The daughter of dead Stralenheim, your foe:
    I'll wed her, ne'ertheless; though, to say truth,
    Just now I am not violently transported
    In favour of such unions.

    Sieg.
                                            But she loves you.

    Ulr.
    And I love her, and therefore would think twice.

    Sieg.
    Alas! Love never did so.

    Ulr.
                                            Then 'tis time
    He should begin, and take the bandage from
    His eyes, and look before he leaps; till now
    He hath ta'en a jump i' the dark.

    Sieg.
                                            But you consent?

    Ulr.
    I did, and do.

    Sieg.
                        Then fix the day.

    Ulr.
                                            'Tis usual,
    And, certes, courteous, to leave that to the lady.

    Sieg.
    I will engage for her.

    Ulr.
                                            So will not I

    For any woman: and as what I fix,
    I fain would see unshaken, when she gives
    Her answer, I'll give mine.

    Sieg.
                                            But 'tis your office
    To woo.

    Ulr.
                                            Count, 'tis a marriage of your making,
    So be it of your wooing; but to please you,
    I will now pay my duty to my mother,
    With whom, you know, the lady Ida is.—
    What would you have? You have forbid my stirring
    For manly sports beyond the castle walls,
    And I obey; you bid me turn a chamberer,
    To pick up gloves, and fans, and knitting-needles,
    And list to songs and tunes, and watch for smiles,
    And smile at pretty prattle, and look into
    The eyes of feminine, as though they were
    The stars receding early to our wish
    Upon the dawn of a world-winning battle—
    What can a son or man do more?
                                            [Exit Ulric.

    Sieg. (solus).
                                            Too much!—
    Too much of duty, and too little love!
    He pays me in the coin he owes me not:
    For such hath been my wayward fate, I could not
    Fulfil a parent's duties by his side
    Till now; but love he owes me, for my thoughts
    Ne'er left him, nor my eyes longed without tears
    To see my child again,—and now I have found him!
    But how! obedient, but with coldness; duteous
    In my sight, but with carelessness; mysterious—
    Abstracted—distant—much given to long absence,
    And where—none know—in league with the most riotous
    Of our young nobles; though, to do him justice,
    He never stoops down to their vulgar pleasures;
    Yet there's some tie between them which I can not
    Unravel. They look up to him—consult him—
    Throng round him as a leader: but with me
    He hath no confidence! Ah! can I hope it
    After—what! doth my father's curse descend
    Even to my child? Or is the Hungarian near
    To shed more blood? or—Oh! if it should be!
    Spirit of Stralenheim, dost thou walk these walls

    To wither him and his—who, though they slew not,
    Unlatched the door of Death for thee? 'Twas not
    Our fault, nor is our sin: thou wert our foe,
    And yet I spared thee when my own destruction
    Slept with thee, to awake with thine awakening!
    And only took—Accurséd gold! thou liest
    Like poison in my hands; I dare not use thee,
    Nor part from thee; thou camest in such a guise,
    Methinks thou wouldst contaminate all hands
    Like mine. Yet I have done, to atone for thee,
    Thou villanous gold! and thy dead master's doom,
    Though he died not by me or mine, as much
    As if he were my brother! I have ta'en
    His orphan Ida—cherished her as one
    Who will be mine.

    Enter an Attendant.

    Atten.
                                            The abbot, if it please
    Your Excellency, whom you sent for, waits
    Upon you.
                                            [Exit Attendant.

    Enter the Prior Albert.

    Prior.
                                            Peace be with these walls, and all
    Within them!

    Sieg.
                                            Welcome, welcome, holy father!
    And may thy prayer be heard!—all men have need
    Of such, and I—

    Prior.
                                            Have the first claim to all
    The prayers of our community. Our convent,
    Erected by your ancestors, is still
    Protected by their children.

    Sieg.
                                            Yes, good father;
    Continue daily orisons for us
    In these dim days of heresies and blood,
    Though the schismatic Swede, Gustavus, is
    Gone home.

    Prior.
                                            To the endless home of unbelievers,
    Where there is everlasting wail and woe,
    Gnashing of teeth, and tears of blood, and fire
    Eternal and the worm which dieth not!

    Sieg.
    True, father: and to avert those pangs from one,
    Who, though of our most faultless holy church,
    Yet died without its last and dearest offices,
    Which smooth the soul through purgatorial pains,
    I have to offer humbly this donation
    In masses for his spirit.
                                            [Siegendorf offers the gold which he had taken from Stralenheim.

    Prior.
                                            Count, if I
    Receive it, 'tis because I know too well
    Refusal would offend you. Be assured
    The largess shall be only dealt in alms,
    And every mass no less sung for the dead.
    Our House needs no donations, thanks to yours,
    Which has of old endowed it; but from you
    And yours in all meet things 'tis fit we obey.
    For whom shall mass be said?

    Sieg. (faltering).
                                            For—for—the dead.

    Prior.
    His name?

    Sieg.
                                            'Tis from a soul, and not a name,
    I would avert perdition.

    Prior.
                                            I meant not
    To pry into your secret. We will pray
    For one unknown, the same as for the proudest.

    Sieg.
    Secret! I have none: but, father, he who's gone
    Might have one; or, in short, he did bequeath—
    No, not bequeath—but I bestow this sum
    For pious purposes.

    Prior.
                                            A proper deed
    In the behalf of our departed friends.

    Sieg.
    But he who 's gone was not my friend, but foe,
    The deadliest and the stanchest.

    Prior.
                                            Better still!
    To employ our means to obtain Heaven for the souls
    Of our dead enemies is worthy those
    Who can forgive them living.

    Sieg.
                                            But I did not
    Forgive this man. I loathed him to the last,
    As he did me. I do not love him now,
    But—

    Prior.
                                            Best of all! for this is pure religion!

    You fain would rescue him you hate from hell—
    An evangelical compassion—with
    Your own gold too!

    Sieg.
                                            Father, 'tis not my gold.

    Prior.
    Whose, then? You said it was no legacy.

    Sieg.
    No matter whose—of this be sure, that he
    Who owned it never more will need it, save
    In that which it may purchase from your altars:
    'Tis yours, or theirs.

    Prior.
                                            Is there no blood upon it?

    Sieg.
    No; but there 's worse than blood—eternal shame!

    Prior.
    Did he who owned it die in his bed?

    Sieg.
                                            Alas!
    He did.

    Prior.
                                            Son! you relapse into revenge,
    If you regret your enemy's bloodless death.

    Sieg.
    His death was fathomlessly deep in blood.

    Prior.
    You said he died in his bed, not battle.

    Sieg.
                                            He
    Died, I scarce know—but—he was stabbed i' the dark,
    And now you have it—perished on his pillow
    By a cut-throat!—Aye!—you may look upon me!
    I am not the man. I'll meet your eye on that point,
    As I can one day God's.

    Prior.
                                            Nor did he die
    By means, or men, or instrument of yours?

    Sieg.
    No! by the God who sees and strikes!

    Prior.
                                            Nor know you
    Who slew him?

    Sieg.
                                            I could only guess at one,
    And he to me a stranger, unconnected,
    As unemployed. Except by one day's knowledge,
    I never saw the man who was suspected.

    Prior.
    Then you are free from guilt.

    Sieg. (eagerly).
                                            Oh! am I?—say!

    Prior.
    You have said so, and know best.

    Sieg.
                                            Father! I have spoken
    The truth, and nought but truth, if not the whole;
    Yet say I am not guilty! for the blood
    Of this man weighs on me, as if I shed it,

    Though, by the Power who abhorreth human blood,
    I did not!—nay, once spared it, when I might
    And could—aye, perhaps, should (if our self-safety
    Be e'er excusable in such defences
    Against the attacks of over-potent foes):
    But pray for him, for me, and all my house;
    For, as I said, though I be innocent,
    I know not why, a like remorse is on me,
    As if he had fallen by me or mine. Pray for me,
    Father! I have prayed myself in vain.

    Prior.
                                            I will.
    Be comforted! You are innocent, and should
    Be calm as innocence.

    Sieg.
                                            But calmness is not
    Always the attribute of innocence.
    I feel it is not.

    Prior.
                                            But it will be so,
    When the mind gathers up its truth within it.
    Remember the great festival to-morrow,
    In which you rank amidst our chiefest nobles,
    As well as your brave son; and smooth your aspect,
    Nor in the general orison of thanks
    For bloodshed stopt, let blood you shed not rise,
    A cloud, upon your thoughts. This were to be
    Too sensitive. Take comfort, and forget
    Such things, and leave remorse unto the guilty.
                                            [Exeunt.

    ACT V.

    Scene I.

    —A large and magnificent Gothic Hall in the Castle of Siegendorf, decorated with Trophies, Banners, and Arms of that Family.

    Enter Arnheim and Meister, attendants of Count Siegendorf.

    Arn.
    Be quick! the Count will soon return: the ladies
    Already are at the portal. Have you sent
    The messengers in search of him he seeks for?

    Meis.
    I have, in all directions, over Prague,
    As far as the man's dress and figure could
    By your description track him. The devil take
    These revels and processions! All the pleasure
    (If such there be) must fall to the spectators,—
    I'm sure none doth to us who make the show.

    Arn.
    Go to! my Lady Countess comes.

    Meis.
                                            I'd rather
    Ride a day's hunting on an outworn jade,
    Than follow in the train of a great man,
    In these dull pageantries.

    Arn.
                                            Begone! and rail
    Within.
                                            [Exeunt.

    Enter the Countess Josephine Siegendorf and Ida Stralenheim.

    Jos.
                                            Well, Heaven be praised! the show is over.

    Ida.
    How can you say so? Never have I dreamt
    Of aught so beautiful. The flowers, the boughs,
    The banners, and the nobles, and the knights,
    The gems, the robes, the plumes, the happy faces,
    The coursers, and the incense, and the sun
    Streaming through the stained windows, even the tombs,
    Which looked so calm, and the celestial hymns,
    Which seemed as if they rather came from Heaven
    Than mounted there—the bursting organ's peal
    Rolling on high like an harmonious thunder;
    The white robes and the lifted eyes; the world
    At peace! and all at peace with one another!
    Oh, my sweet mother!
                                            [Embracing Josephine.

    Jos.
                                            My belovéd child!
    For such, I trust, thou shalt be shortly.

    Ida.
                                            Oh!
    I am so already. Feel how my heart beats!

    Jos.
    It does, my love; and never may it throb
    With aught more bitter.

    Ida.
                                            Never shall it do so!
    How should it? What should make us grieve? I hate
    To hear of sorrow: how can we be sad,
    Who love each other so entirely? You,

    The Count, and Ulric, and your daughter Ida.

    Jos.
    Poor child!

    Ida.
                        Do you pity me?

    Jos.
                                            No: I but envy,
    And that in sorrow, not in the world's sense
    Of the universal vice, if one vice be
    More general than another.

    Ida.
                                            I'll not hear
    A word against a world which still contains
    You and my Ulric. Did you ever see
    Aught like him? How he towered amongst them all!
    How all eyes followed him! The flowers fell faster—
    Rained from each lattice at his feet, methought,
    Than before all the rest; and where he trod
    I dare be sworn that they grow still, nor e'er
    Will wither.

    Jos.
                                            You will spoil him, little flatterer,
    If he should hear you.

    Ida.
                                            But he never will.
    I dare not say so much to him—I fear him.

    Jos.
    Why so? he loves you well.

    Ida.
                                            But I can never
    Shape my thoughts of him into words to him:
    Besides, he sometimes frightens me.

    Jos.
                                            How so?

    Ida.
    A cloud comes o'er his blue eyes suddenly,
    Yet he says nothing.

    Jos.
                                            It is nothing: all men,
    Especially in these dark troublous times,
    Have much to think of.

    Ida.
                                            But I cannot think
    Of aught save him.

    Jos.
                                            Yet there are other men,
    In the world's eye, as goodly. There 's, for instance,
    The young Count Waldorf, who scarce once withdrew
    His eyes from yours to-day.

    Ida.
                                            I did not see him,
    But Ulric. Did you not see at the moment
    When all knelt, and I wept? and yet, methought,
    Through my fast tears, though they were thick and warm,
    I saw him smiling on me.

    Jos.
                                            I could not
    See aught save Heaven, to which my eyes were raised,
    Together with the people's.

    Ida.
                                            I thought too
    Of Heaven, although I looked on Ulric.

    Jos.
                                            Come,
    Let us retire! they will be here anon,
    Expectant of the banquet. We will lay
    Aside these nodding plumes and dragging trains.

    Ida.
    And, above all, these stiff and heavy jewels,
    Which make my head and heart ache, as both throb
    Beneath their glitter o'er my brow and zone.
    Dear mother, I am with you.

    Enter Count Siegendorf, in full dress, from the solemnity, and Ludwig.

    Sieg.
                                            Is he not found?

    Lud.
    Strict search is making every where; and if
    The man be in Prague, be sure he will be found.

    Sieg.
    Where's Ulric?

    Lud.
                                            He rode round the other way
    With some young nobles; but he left them soon;
    And, if I err not, not a minute since
    I heard his Excellency, with his train,
    Gallop o'er the west drawbridge.

    Enter Ulric, splendidly dressed.

    Sieg. (to Ludwig).
                                            See they cease not
    Their quest of him I have described.
                                            [Exit Ludwig.

                                            Oh, Ulric!
    How have I longed for thee!

    Ulr.
                                            Your wish is granted—
    Behold me!

    Sieg.
                                            I have seen the murderer.

    Ulr.
    Whom? Where?

    Sieg.
                                            The Hungarian, who slew Stralenheim.

    Ulr.
    You dream.

    Sieg.
                                            I live! and as I live, I saw him—
    Heard him! he dared to utter even my name.

    Ulr.
    What name?

    Sieg.
                        Werner! 'twas mine.

    Ulr.
                                            It must be so
    No more: forget it.

    Sieg.
                                            Never! never! all
    My destinies were woven in that name:
    It will not be engraved upon my tomb,
    But it may lead me there.

    Ulr.
                                            To the point—the Hungarian?

    Sieg.
    Listen!—The church was thronged: the hymn was raised;
    "Te Deum" pealed from nations rather than
    From choirs, in one great cry of "God be praised"
    For one day's peace, after thrice ten dread years,
    Each bloodier than the former: I arose,
    With all the nobles, and as I looked down
    Along the lines of lifted faces,—from
    Our bannered and escutcheoned gallery, I
    Saw, like a flash of lightning (for I saw
    A moment and no more), what struck me sightless
    To all else—the Hungarian's face! I grew
    Sick; and when I recovered from the mist
    Which curled about my senses, and again
    Looked down, I saw him not. The thanksgiving
    Was over, and we marched back in procession.

    Ulr.
    Continue.

    Sieg.
                                            When we reached the Muldau's bridge,
    The joyous crowd above, the numberless
    Barks manned with revellers in their best garbs,
    Which shot along the glancing tide below,
    The decorated street, the long array,
    The clashing music, and the thundering
    Of far artillery, which seemed to bid
    A long and loud farewell to its great doings,
    The standards o'er me, and the tramplings round,
    The roar of rushing thousands,—all—all could not
    Chase this man from my mind, although my senses
    No longer held him palpable.

    Ulr.
                                            You saw him
    No more, then?

    Sieg.
                                            I looked, as a dying soldier
    Looks at a draught of water, for this man;

    But still I saw him not; but in his stead—

    Ulr.
    What in his stead?

    Sieg.
                                            My eye for ever fell
    Upon your dancing crest; the loftiest.
    As on the loftiest and the loveliest head,
    It rose the highest of the stream of plumes,
    Which overflowed the glittering streets of Prague.

    Ulr.
    What 's this to the Hungarian?

    Sieg.
                                            Much! for I
    Had almost then forgot him in my son;
    When just as the artillery ceased, and paused
    The music, and the crowd embraced in lieu
    Of shouting, I heard in a deep, low voice,
    Distinct and keener far upon my ear
    Than the late cannon's volume, this word—"Werner!"

    Ulr.
    Uttered by—

    Sieg.
                                            Him! I turned—and saw—and fell.

    Ulr.
    And wherefore? Were you seen?

    Sieg.
                                            The officious care
    Of those around me dragged me from the spot,
    Seeing my faintness, ignorant of the cause:
    You, too, were too remote in the procession
    (The old nobles being divided from their children)
    To aid me.

    Ulr.
                        But I'll aid you now.

    Sieg.
                                            In what?

    Ulr.
    In searching for this man, or—When he's found,
    What shall we do with him?

    Sieg.
                                            I know not that.

    Ulr.
    Then wherefore seek?

    Sieg.
                                            Because I cannot rest
    Till he is found. His fate, and Stralenheim's,
    And ours, seem intertwisted! nor can be
    Unravelled, till—

    Enter an Attendant.

    Atten.
                                            A stranger to wait on
    Your Excellency.

    Sieg.
                        Who?

    Atten.
                                            He gave no name.

    Sieg.
    Admit him, ne'ertheless.
                                            [The Attendant introduces Gabor, and afterwards exit.

                        Ah!

    Gab.
                                            'Tis then Werner!

    Sieg. (haughtily).
    The same you knew, sir, by that name; and you!

    Gab. (looking round).
    I recognise you both: father and son,
    It seems. Count, I have heard that you, or yours,
    Have lately been in search of me: I am here.

    Sieg.
    I have sought you, and have found you: you are charged
    (Your own heart may inform you why) with such
    A crime as—
                                            [He pauses.

    Gab.
                                            Give it utterance, and then
    I'll meet the consequences.

    Sieg.
                                            You shall do so—
    Unless—

    Gab.
                        First, who accuses me?

    Sieg.
                                            All things,
    If not all men: the universal rumour—
    My own presence on the spot—the place—the time—
    And every speck of circumstance unite
    To fix the blot on you.

    Gab.
                                            And on me only?
    Pause ere you answer: is no other name,
    Save mine, stained in this business?

    Sieg.
                                            Trifling villain!
    Who play'st with thine own guilt! Of all that breathe
    Thou best dost know the innocence of him
    'Gainst whom thy breath would blow thy bloody slander.
    But I will talk no further with a wretch,
    Further than justice asks. Answer at once,
    And without quibbling, to my charge.

    Gab.
                                            'Tis false!

    Sieg.
    Who says so?

    Gab.
                        I.

    Sieg.
                        And how disprove it?

    Gab.
                                            By
    The presence of the murderer.

    Sieg.
                        Name him.

    Gab.
                                            He
    May have more names than one. Your Lordship had so
    Once on a time.

    Sieg.
                                            If you mean me, I dare
    Your utmost.

    Gab.
                                            You may do so, and in safety;
    I know the assassin.

    Sieg.
                        Where is he?

    Gab. (pointing to Ulric).
                                            Beside you!
                                            [Ulric rushes forward to attack Gabor; Siegendorf interposes.

    Sieg.
    Liar and fiend! but you shall not be slain;
    These walls are mine, and you are safe within them.
    Ulric, repel this calumny, as I
                                            [He turns to Ulric.

    Will do. I avow it is a growth so monstrous,
    I could not deem it earth-born: but be calm;
    It will refute itself. But touch him not.
                                            [Ulric endeavours to compose himself.

    Gab.
    Look at him, Count, and then hear me.

    Sieg. (first to Gabor, and then looking at Ulric).
                                            I hear thee.
    My God! you look—

    Ulr.
                        How?

    Sieg.
                                            As on that dread night,
    When we met in the garden.

    Ulr. (composing himself).
                                            It is nothing.

    Gab.
    Count, you are bound to hear me. I came hither
    Not seeking you, but sought. When I knelt down
    Amidst the people in the church, I dreamed not
    To find the beggared Werner in the seat
    Of Senators and Princes; but you have called me,
    And we have met.

    Sieg.
                        Go on, sir.

    Gab.
                                            Ere I do so,
    Allow me to inquire, who profited
    By Stralenheim's death? Was't I—as poor as ever;
    And poorer by suspicion on my name!
    The Baron lost in that last outrage neither
    Jewels nor gold; his life alone was sought.—

    A life which stood between the claims of others
    To honours and estates scarce less than princely.

    Sieg.
    These hints, as vague as vain, attach no less
    To me than to my son.

    Gab.
                                            I can't help that.
    But let the consequence alight on him
    Who feels himself the guilty one amongst us.
    I speak to you, Count Siegendorf, because
    I know you innocent, and deem you just.
    But ere I can proceed—dare you protect me?
    Dare you command me?
                                            [Siegendorf first looks at the Hungarian, and then at Ulric, who has unbuckled his sabre, and is drawing lines with it on the floor—still in its sheath.

    Ulr. (looks at his father, and says,)
                                            Let the man go on!

    Gab.
    I am unarmed, Count, bid your son lay down
    His sabre.

    Ulr. (offers it to him contemptuously).
                        Take it.

    Gab.
                                            No, sir, 'tis enough
    That we are both unarmed—I would not choose
    To wear a steel which may be stained with more
    Blood than came there in battle.

    Ulr. (casts the sabre from him in contempt).
                                            It—or some
    Such other weapon in my hand—spared yours
    Once, when disarmed and at my mercy.

    Gab.
                                            True—
    I have not forgotten it: you spared me for
    Your own especial purpose—to sustain
    An ignominy not my own.

    Ulr.
                                            Proceed.
    The tale is doubtless worthy the relater.
    But is it of my father to hear further?
                                            [To Siegendorf.

    Sieg. (takes his son by the hand).
    My son, I know my own innocence, and doubt not
    Of yours—but I have promised this man patience;
    Let him continue.

    Gab.
                                            I will not detain you,
    By speaking of myself much: I began
    Life early—and am what the world has made me.
    At Frankfort on the Oder, where I passed

    A winter in obscurity, it was
    My chance at several places of resort
    (Which I frequented sometimes, but not often)
    To hear related a strange circumstance
    In February last. A martial force,
    Sent by the state, had, after strong resistance,
    Secured a band of desperate men, supposed
    Marauders from the hostile camp.—They proved,
    However, not to be so—but banditti,
    Whom either accident or enterprise
    Had carried from their usual haunt—the forests
    Which skirt Bohemia—even into Lusatia.
    Many amongst them were reported of
    High rank—and martial law slept for a time.
    At last they were escorted o'er the frontiers,
    And placed beneath the civil jurisdiction
    Of the free town of Frankfort. Of their fate
    I know no more.

    Sieg.
                                            And what is this to Ulric?

    Gab.
    Amongst them there was said to be one man
    Of wonderful endowments:—birth and fortune,
    Youth, strength, and beauty, almost superhuman,
    And courage as unrivalled, were proclaimed
    His by the public rumour; and his sway,
    Not only over his associates, but
    His judges, was attributed to witchcraft,
    Such was his influence:—I have no great faith
    In any magic save that of the mine—
    I therefore deemed him wealthy.—But my soul
    Was roused with various feelings to seek out
    This prodigy, if only to behold him.

    Sieg.
    And did you so?

    Gab.
                                            You'll hear. Chance favoured me:
    A popular affray in the public square
    Drew crowds together—it was one of those
    Occasions where men's souls look out of them,
    And show them as they are—even in their faces:
    The moment my eye met his, I exclaimed,
    "This is the man!" though he was then, as since,
    With the nobles of the city. I felt sure
    I had not erred, and watched him long and nearly;

    I noted down his form—his gesture—features,
    Stature, and bearing—and amidst them all,
    'Midst every natural and acquired distinction,
    I could discern, methought, the assassin's eye
    And gladiator's heart.

    Ulr. (smiling).
                                            The tale sounds well.

    Gab.
    And may sound better.—He appeared to me
    One of those beings to whom Fortune bends,
    As she doth to the daring—and on whom
    The fates of others oft depend; besides,
    An indescribable sensation drew me
    Near to this man, as if my point of fortune
    Was to be fixed by him.—There I was wrong.

    Sieg.
    And may not be right now.

    Gab.
                                            I followed him,
    Solicited his notice—and obtained it—
    Though not his friendship:—it was his intention
    To leave the city privately—we left it
    Together—and together we arrived
    In the poor town where Werner was concealed,
    And Stralenheim was succoured—Now we are on
    The verge—dare you hear further?

    Sieg.
                                            I must do so—
    Or I have heard too much.

    Gab.
                                            I saw in you
    A man above his station—and if not
    So high, as now I find you, in my then
    Conceptions, 'twas that I had rarely seen
    Men such as you appeared in height of mind,
    In the most high of worldly rank; you were
    Poor, even to all save rags: I would have shared
    My purse, though slender, with you—you refused it.

    Sieg.
    Doth my refusal make a debt to you,
    That thus you urge it?

    Gab.
                                            Still you owe me something,
    Though not for that; and I owed you my safety,
    At least my seeming safety, when the slaves
    Of Stralenheim pursued me on the grounds
    That I had robbed him.

    Sieg.
                                            I concealed you—I,
    Whom and whose house you arraign, reviving viper!

    Gab.
    I accuse no man—save in my defence.
    You, Count, have made yourself accuser—judge:
    Your hall 's my court, your heart is my tribunal.
    Be just, and I'll be merciful!

    Sieg.
                                            You merciful?—
    You! Base calumniator!

    Gab.
                                            I. 'Twill rest
    With me at last to be so. You concealed me—
    In secret passages known to yourself,
    You said, and to none else. At dead of night,
    Weary with watching in the dark, and dubious
    Of tracing back my way, I saw a glimmer,
    Through distant crannies, of a twinkling light:
    I followed it, and reached a door—a secret
    Portal—which opened to the chamber, where,
    With cautious hand and slow, having first undone
    As much as made a crevice of the fastening,
    I looked through and beheld a purple bed,
    And on it Stralenheim!—

    Sieg.
                                            Asleep! And yet
    You slew him!—Wretch!

    Gab.
                                            He was already slain,
    And bleeding like a sacrifice. My own
    Blood became ice.

    Sieg.
                                            But he was all alone!
    You saw none else? You did not see the—
                                            [He pauses from agitation.

    Gab.
                                            No,
    He, whom you dare not name, nor even I
    Scarce dare to recollect, was not then in
    The chamber.

    Sieg. (to Ulric).
                                            Then, my boy! thou art guiltless still—
    Thou bad'st me say I was so once.—Oh! now
    Do thou as much.

    Gab.
                                            Be patient! I can not
    Recede now, though it shake the very walls
    Which frown above us. You remember,—or
    If not, your son does,—that the locks were changed
    Beneath his chief inspection on the morn
    Which led to this same night: how he had entered
    He best knows—but within an antechamber,

    The door of which was half ajar, I saw
    A man who washed his bloody hands, and oft
    With stern and anxious glance gazed back upon—
    The bleeding body—but it moved no more.

    Sieg.
    Oh! God of fathers!

    Gab.
                                            I beheld his features
    As I see yours—but yours they were not, though
    Resembling them—behold them in Count Ulric's!
    Distinct as I beheld them, though the expression
    Is not now what it then was!—but it was so
    When I first charged him with the crime—so lately.

    Sieg.
    This is so—

    Gab. (interrupting him).
                                            Nay—but hear me to the end!
    Now you must do so.—I conceived myself
    Betrayed by you and him (for now I saw
    There was some tie between you) into this
    Pretended den of refuge, to become
    The victim of your guilt; and my first thought
    Was vengeance: but though armed with a short poniard
    (Having left my sword without), I was no match
    For him at any time, as had been proved
    That morning—either in address or force.
    I turned and fled—i' the dark: chance rather than
    Skill made me gain the secret door of the hall,
    And thence the chamber where you slept: if I
    Had found you waking, Heaven alone can tell
    What vengeance and suspicion might have prompted;
    But ne'er slept guilt as Werner slept that night.

    Sieg.
    And yet I had horrid dreams! and such brief sleep,
    The stars had not gone down when I awoke.
    Why didst thou spare me? I dreamt of my father—
    And now my dream is out!

    Gab.
                                            'Tis not my fault,
    If I have read it.—Well! I fled and hid me—
    Chance led me here after so many moons—
    And showed me Werner in Count Siegendorf!
    Werner, whom I had sought in huts in vain,
    Inhabited the palace of a sovereign!
    You sought me and have found me—now you know
    My secret, and may weigh its worth.

    Sieg. (after a pause).
                                            Indeed!

    Gab.
    Is it revenge or justice which inspires
    Your meditation?

    Sieg.
                                            Neither—I was weighing
    The value of your secret.

    Gab.
                                            You shall know it
    At once:—When you were poor, and I, though poor,
    Rich enough to relieve such poverty
    As might have envied mine, I offered you
    My purse—you would not share it:—I'll be franker
    With you: you are wealthy, noble, trusted by
    The imperial powers—you understand me?

    Sieg.
                                            Yes.

    Gab.
    Not quite. You think me venal, and scarce true:
    'Tis no less true, however, that my fortunes
    Have made me both at present. You shall aid me:
    I would have aided you—and also have
    Been somewhat damaged in my name to save
    Yours and your son's. Weigh well what I have said.

    Sieg.
    Dare you await the event of a few minutes'
    Deliberation?

    Gab. (casts his eyes on Ulric, who is leaning against a pillar).
                                            If I should do so?

    Sieg.
    I pledge my life for yours. Withdraw into
    This tower.
                                            [Opens a turret-door.

    Gab. (hesitatingly).
                                            This is the second safe asylum
    You have offered me.

    Sieg.
                                            And was not the first so?

    Gab.
    I know not that even now—but will approve
    The second. I have still a further shield.—
    I did not enter Prague alone; and should I
    Be put to rest with Stralenheim, there are
    Some tongues without will wag in my behalf.
    Be brief in your decision!

    Sieg.
                                            I will be so.—

    My word is sacred and irrevocable
    Within these walls, but it extends no further.

    Gab.
    I'll take it for so much.

    Sieg. (points to Ulric's sabre, still upon the ground).
                                            Take also that
    I saw you eye it eagerly, and him
    Distrustfully.

    Gab. (takes up the sabre).
                                            I will; and so provide
    To sell my life—not cheaply.
                                            [Gabor goes into the turret, which Siegendorf closes.

    Sieg. (advances to Ulric).
                                            Now, Count Ulric!
    For son I dare not call thee—What say'st thou?

    Ulr.
    His tale is true.

    Sieg.
                        True, monster!

    Ulr.
                                            Most true, father!
    And you did well to listen to it: what
    We know, we can provide against. He must
    Be silenced.

    Sieg.
                                            Aye, with half of my domains;
    And with the other half, could he and thou
    Unsay this villany.

    Ulr.
                                            It is no time
    For trifling or dissembling. I have said
    His story 's true; and he too must be silenced.

    Sieg.
    How so?

    Ulr.
                                            As Stralenheim is. Are you so dull
    As never to have hit on this before?
    When we met in the garden, what except
    Discovery in the act could make me know
    His death? Or had the Prince's household been
    Then summoned, would the cry for the police
    Been left to such a stranger? Or should I
    Have loitered on the way? Or could you, Werner,
    The object of the Baron's hate and fears,
    Have fled, unless by many an hour before
    Suspicion woke? I sought and fathomed you,
    Doubting if you were false or feeble: I
    Perceived you were the latter: and yet so
    Confiding have I found you, that I doubted
    At times your weakness.

    Sieg.
                                            Parricide! no less

    Than common stabber! What deed of my life,
    Or thought of mine, could make you deem me fit
    For your accomplice?

    Ulr.
                                            Father, do not raise
    The devil you cannot lay between us. This
    Is time for union and for action, not
    For family disputes. While you were tortured,
    Could I be calm? Think you that I have heard
    This fellow's tale without some feeling?—You
    Have taught me feeling for you and myself;
    For whom or what else did you ever teach it?

    Sieg.
    Oh! my dead father's curse! 'tis working now.

    Ulr.
    Let it work on! the grave will keep it down!
    Ashes are feeble foes: it is more easy
    To baffle such, than countermine a mole,
    Which winds its blind but living path beneath you.
    Yet hear me still!—If you condemn me, yet,
    Remember who hath taught me once too often
    To listen to him! Who proclaimed to me
    That there were crimes made venial by the occasion?
    That passion was our nature? that the goods
    Of Heaven waited on the goods of fortune?
    Who showed me his humanity secured
    By his nerves only? Who deprived me of
    All power to vindicate myself and race
    In open day? By his disgrace which stamped
    (It might be) bastardy on me, and on
    Himself—a felon's brand! The man who is
    At once both warm and weak invites to deeds
    He longs to do, but dare not. Is it strange
    That I should act what you could think? We have done
    With right and wrong; and now must only ponder
    Upon effects, not causes. Stralenheim,
    Whose life I saved from impulse, as unknown,
    I would have saved a peasant's or a dog's, I slew
    Known as our foe—but not from vengeance. He
    Was a rock in our way which I cut through,
    As doth the bolt, because it stood between us
    And our true destination—but not idly.
    As stranger I preserved him, and he owed me
    His life: when due, I but resumed the debt.

    He, you, and I stood o'er a gulf wherein
    I have plunged our enemy. You kindled first
    The torch—you showed the path; now trace me that
    Of safety—or let me!

    Sieg.
                                            I have done with life!

    Ulr.
    Let us have done with that which cankers life—
    Familiar feuds and vain recriminations
    Of things which cannot be undone. We have
    No more to learn or hide: I know no fear,
    And have within these very walls men who
    (Although you know them not) dare venture all things.
    You stand high with the state; what passes here
    Will not excite her too great curiosity:
    Keep your own secret, keep a steady eye,
    Sir not, and speak not;—leave the rest to me:
    We must have no third babblers thrust between us.
                                            [Exit Ulric.

    Sieg. (solus).
    Am I awake? are these my father's halls?
    And you—my son? My son! mine! who have ever
    Abhorred both mystery and blood, and yet
    Am plunged into the deepest hell of both!
    I must be speedy, or more will be shed—
    The Hungarian's!—Ulric—he hath partisans,
    It seems: I might have guessed as much. Oh fool!
    Wolves prowl in company. He hath the key
    (As I too) of the opposite door which leads
    Into the turret. Now then! or once more
    To be the father of fresh crimes, no less
    Than of the criminal! Ho! Gabor! Gabor!
                                            [Exit into the turret, closing the door after him.

    Scene II.

    —The Interior of the Turret.

    Gabor and Siegendorf.

    Gab.
    Who calls?

    Sieg.
                                            I—Siegendorf! Take these and fly!
    Lose not a moment!
                                            [Tears off a diamond star and other jewels, and thrusts them into Gabor's hand.

    Gab.
                                            What am I to do

    With these?

    Sieg.
                                            Whate'er you will: sell them, or hoard,
    And prosper; but delay not, or you are lost!

    Gab.
    You pledged your honour for my safety!

    Sieg.
                                            And
    Must thus redeem it. Fly! I am not master,
    It seems, of my own castle—of my own
    Retainers—nay, even of these very walls,
    Or I would bid them fall and crush me! Fly!
    Or you will be slain by—

    Gab.
                                            Is it even so?
    Farewell, then! Recollect, however, Count,
    You sought this fatal interview!

    Sieg.
                                            I did:
    Let it not be more fatal still!—Begone!

    Gab.
    By the same path I entered?

    Sieg.
                                            Yes; that 's safe still;
    But loiter not in Prague;—you do not know
    With whom you have to deal.

    Gab.
                                            I know too well—
    And knew it ere yourself, unhappy Sire!
    Farewell!
                                            [Exit Gabor.

    Sieg. (solus and listening).
                                            He hath cleared the staircase. Ah! I hear
    The door sound loud behind him! He is safe!
    Safe!—Oh, my father's spirit!—I am faint—
                                            [He leans down upon a stone seat, near the wall of the tower, in a drooping posture.

    Enter Ulric with others armed, and with weapons drams.

    Ulr.
    Despatch!—he's there!

    Lud.
                        The Count, my Lord!

    Ulr. (recognizing Siegendorf).
                                            You here, sir!

    Sieg.
    Yes: if you want another victim, strike!

    Ulr. (seeing him stript of his jewels).
    Where is the ruffian who hath plundered you?
    Vassals, despatch in search of him! You see
    'Twas as I said—the wretch hath stript my father
    Of jewels which might form a Prince's heir-loom!

    Away! I'll follow you forthwith.
                                            [Exeunt all but Siegendorf and Ulric.

                                            What's this?
    Where is the villain?

    Sieg.
                                            There are two, sir: which
    Are you in quest of?

    Ulr.
                                            Let us hear no more
    Of this: he must be found. You have not let him
    Escape?

    Sieg.
                        He's gone.

    Ulr.
                        With your connivance?

    Sieg.
                                            With
    My fullest, freest aid.

    Ulr.
                                            Then fare you well!
                                            [Ulric is going.

    Sieg.
    Stop! I command—entreat—implore! Oh, Ulric!
    Will you then leave me?

    Ulr.
                                            What! remain to be
    Denounced—dragged, it may be, in chains; and all
    By your inherent weakness, half-humanity,
    Selfish remorse, and temporizing pity,
    That sacrifices your whole race to save
    A wretch to profit by our ruin! No, Count,
    Henceforth you have no son!

    Sieg.
                                            I never had one;
    And would you ne'er had borne the useless name!
    Where will you go? I would not send you forth
    Without protection.

    Ulr.
                                            Leave that unto me.
    I am not alone; nor merely the vain heir
    Of your domains; a thousand, aye, ten thousand
    Swords, hearts, and hands are mine.

    Sieg.
                                            The foresters!
    With whom the Hungarian found you first at Frankfort!

    Ulr.
    Yes—men—who are worthy of the name! Go tell
    Your Senators that they look well to Prague;
    Their Feast of Peace was early for the times;
    There are more spirits abroad than have been laid
    With Wallenstein!

    Enter Josephine and Ida.

    Jos.
                                            What is't we hear? My Siegendorf!
    Thank Heaven, I see you safe!

    Sieg.
                        Safe!

    Ida.
                                            Yes, dear father!

    Sieg.
    No, no; I have no children: never more
    Call me by that worst name of parent.

    Jos.
                                            What
    Means my good Lord?

    Sieg.
                                            That you have given birth
    To a demon!

    Ida (taking Ulric's hand).
                                            Who shall dare say this of Ulric?

    Sieg.
    Ida, beware! there's blood upon that hand.

    Ida (stooping to kiss it).
    I'd kiss it off, though it were mine.

    Sieg.
                                            It is so!

    Ulr.
    Away! it is your father's!
                                            [Exit Ulric.

    Ida.
                                            Oh, great God!
    And I have loved this man!
                                            [Ida falls senseless—Josephine stands speechless with horror.

    Sieg.
                                            The wretch hath slain
    Them both!—My Josephine! we are now alone!
    Would we had ever been so!—All is over
    For me!—Now open wide, my sire, thy grave;
    Thy curse hath dug it deeper for thy son
    In mine!—The race of Siegendorf is past.





    The end of the fifth act and the Drama.

    B. P. Jy 20, 1822.