University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

The Forest.
The Dawn just breaking.
Enter Herman.
HERMAN.
The morning dawns; and renovated nature
Awakens to receive the sun's glad beams
That summon her to life and new exertion.
Creation smiles around me; in each glade
The gay birds carol; every flow'ret lifts
Its gaudy head, and scatters round its fragrance.
All, all but me the gen'ral transport share.
Me the light cheers not—yonder glowing east
Is but the harbinger of woe to me,
Denouncing horror and despair.

Enter Arnold.
ARNOLD.
Who thus
Talks of despair? Thou, Herman?

HERMAN.
Oh my brother!

ARNOLD.
I look'd to meet thee full of hope and joy.
Hath any ill betided?

HERMAN.
I am wretched—
My heart is almost broken—I've fulfill'd
My promise—I have told her all—

ARNOLD.
Is then her love fleeting as yonder clouds
That skim o'er heav'n's expanse?

HERMAN.
Oh! wrong her not—
Her love, her faith are spotless as herself;
But I am ruin'd, lost to ev'ry hope—

ARNOLD.
This surely is extravagance. Thou'st prov'd her,
As thou can'st wish, affectionate and constant.
Why then talk idly thus of being wretched?

HERMAN.
That very proof thou speak'st of has undone me.
Had I not learnt the value of the prize
At which I aim'd, I had not felt the anguish
Which harrows up my soul. Oh, my best brother!
Had'st thou but seen how nobly she sustain'd
The fatal truths I utter'd, thou'st have lov'd her;
Nay, thou'st have worshipp'd her, had'st thou but seen her
When I discours'd to her of thee, my Arnold,
And of thy virtues. From her eyes dropt tears
Of gen'rous sympathy, her bosom throbb'd,
She could not speak—but when at length I told her
Of our resolve to quit these guilty shades,
And seek renown in some far distant clime,
Her tears no longer flow'd; transport illum'd
Her glowing cheeks; with more than human firmness
She bad me save her from a rival's arms;
She vow'd to follow, nay to beg for me.

ARNOLD.
Could'st thou resist her proffer?

HERMAN.
Could I live
Weigh'd down by consciousness of foul dishonour?
Heav'n knows my heart, I love her far too well
To be the author of her wretchedness—
Reduce her to an outlaw'd bandit's fortunes?—
No, no—thank heav'n! that fate I have escap'd.

ARNOLD
(aside).
Passion so works on his too feeling nature,
He must not thus be left.—Can'st thou trust me?

HERMAN.
I can.

ARNOLD.
Then thus I'll put thee to the proof.
That ring from thy lov'd Ida's hand receiv'd—
Intrust it to me.

HERMAN.
Ha! the ring dost say?
Ask any thing but that—

ARNOLD.
And canst thou doubt me?

HERMAN.
I doubt thee not—I'd trust thee with my life—
But there's a sacred int'rest in that ring—
I vow'd to keep it—

ARNOLD.
I've a work in hand
Which will not brook delay—thine own, thine Ida's
Redemption from the ills which menace you.
Without that ring I can do nothing—

HERMAN.
Take it—
'Tis the sole treasure I possess on earth.

ARNOLD.
Fear not—'tis safe with me.—Farewell—I go
To serve thee and thy love—Enquire not where—
Trust to my zeal and friendship. In that grove
Wait my return. Ere the fresh risen sun
Shall gild yon mountain, I'll be back with thee.

[Exeunt severally.