University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

The Valley.
Enter William from his Cottage—Time sunset.
Wil.
Not yet at rest? Oh, thou untiring sun,
When wilt thou leave to night her empire?
Thou art too bright for misery to gaze on.
It would have all things dreary as its hopes!
Joy is thy comrade, who with elastic bound
Springs from his couch to hail thee, feeling thy light
Attuned to all his thoughts, bright and gladsome,
And runs with thee his daily course of toil,
Nor breathes a sorrow but in bidding thee
Good night! How I have lov'd thee, when at eve
I've watch'd the peak, thou'st circled with a crown
The ores and gems of earth could ne'er have equall'd!
And thought when next thou camest to light the world,
I should be there to hail both thee and her whom
Each succeeding day left more worth loving. [Turns to window.]

There she sits, like one of those ethereal beings
Weeping hearts deem the lov'd dead are chang'd to,
Moveless and wordless as a stone Niobe!

[He stands gazing at the window.]
Enter Bertha, 1 E. R. H.
Ber.
Is there no sound beyond the power of words?
No signs, beyond our tears, and smiles, to tell
To those who sorrow that we hope, but have not?
Weep my brother, weep; grief from her tears
Comfort alone distils, The music of thy mind
Is like an untuned harp, the sweetest minstrel
Could only waken discord by his touch
Yet I must speak to thee; my heart's so charg'd
With love and sorrow, that I feel I need
Myself a comforter when I should play it.
William! Brother!

Wil.
Speak not to me, Bertha,
I would forget the present, and the past:
For they do mock each other, and thy voice
Brings them in mad collision. The hopes
Of my young life are overthrown by to day's
Miseries. Things that I once did love
Are now become so hateful to my thinking,
That I do loathe the very air I breathe,
Because it blows so freshly. I would have it
Clogg'd with enfeebling breaths, till memory
Became lost in the brain's confusion.
May curses—

Ber.
Hold, William! man's curses smite
No head but his who breathes them—you are but man;
Nor show yourself below thy name's dignity
In striving to o'ertop it. The maniac talks
Alone of empires that the earth hath not
As his possessions. Be thou content to be
That which your father is—truly a man
Go! tell your wrongs aloud, until our hills
Do ring their echo round throughout the land.

Wil.
And tell her shame. [Crosses R. H.]


Ber.
Whom do we pity,
The fool who madly leaps the precipice
Or him the avalanche overwhelms?
They would strike with thee, aye, and weep with thee;
And no swords dimm'd by tears of pity's shedding!

Enter Arnold hastily, averting his face from William, L. H.
Arn.
How fares Antoine?

Wil.
As the tree, father,
The lightning's blasted, that still wears some show
Of life though sear'd and blacken'd.

Arn.
Oh, for an eagle's course without its appetites!
To fly around the world without a master;
To look into the fulness of the sun,
And blink not; to take my rest upon some craig
No foot hath trod but mine, and ruff my plumage
In the fresh'ning air I never breath'd—a slave!

Ber.
Father!
You look not as you wont. So wild,
I do nigh tremble!

Arn.
Dost thou, girl, at me?
That's well! would I could change my nature.
I blush for that call'd human. I could be
Any beast, so that it had the power of killing.
Eberhard is dead.

Wil. and Ber.
Dead!

Arn.
Aye, dead!
Why should you doubt it? are we so safely hous'd
That it, should seem impossible?

Wil.
When died he?

Arn.
When his life was of most worth, to day,
In the court of Rudolph. Before their eyes
He fell lifeless from grief, now mark their justice!
They offered for the dead their paltry gold;
The living spurn'd it, and then (oh, mighty
Mercy) they bid us thank them for a quiet grave
And call'd me slave!

Ber.
My father, slave!

Wil.
Go on, sir, pray go on. It is so glad a tale
I would all Switzerland were here to hear it.
I deemed my soul had only own'd one shrine:
I was mistaken. Prithee go on, sir.

Arn.
I said the thing they called me—'Tis true
I knew that long ago; but did not think
Others dare name me so. 'Twas loudly said
Some fifty ears were listeners round about.
Would those that I could name had heard it too.
Mine tingle with it now.

Ber.
And mine father!

Arn.
We have spies too, feeding on our words.

Wil.
Oh, for an Austrian throat within my grasp
[Looks off R. H.]
Great heaven! dost thou approve my wish, or do my
Senses,
O'er wrought by these afflictions shape the air
Into my mind's desire? It is, it is—an Austrian!

[Rushes out R. H.]
Ber.
'Tis Albert! Father! father! heed'st thou not
What William said? Save him! save him!
He has him by the throat—they near the brink—
A fall would lose them both.

Arn.
One is our foe,
Heaven will shield the other.

Ber.
They're parted
He flies this way!

Arn.
Who flies!

Ber.
William!

Arn.
Flies
Before an Austrian! how now! a craven?

Enter William, with a miniature, R. H.
Wil.
Is not this my mother?

Arn.
Like, very like
The soul is absent; the eyes are far too tame
How camest thou by it?

Wil.
The Austrian wore it.
Around his neck it hung, and as my eye
Fell on it, my mother's voice rang in mine ear;
Its euphony again and still'd my wrath.

Albert runs in.
Alb.
William and Arnold! I ask mine own again
Or by my troth I'll have a recompense. [Draws.]

I would not ye should pay—I hold my life
More valueless than that ye have despoiled
Me of. It is my mother's picture, sirs.

Arn.
Enough! 'tis here. Now answer me I pray thee
Your name is Eyloff?

Alb.
How know you that, sir?

Arn.
By that same evidence you call your mother.
Her Sister was the mother of this boy.

Alb.
She was then of the mountains?

Ber.
(Faintly.)
Thank God! Thank god!

Arn.
My child! [Bertha sinks into Arnold's arms.]