University of Virginia Library

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).
[Werner walks on abruptly, and then approaches Josephine.

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
Cœsts 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).
[Perceiving Gabor.

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).
[He pauses and looks at Werner: then resumus.

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.
(Aside).

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.
[Werner looks around, and snatches up a knife lying on a table in a recess.

[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).
(recognising her).

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.