University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

—Tell's Cottage.—Melchtal asleep upon a couch, at the head of which Emma is watching.
Emma
[rising, and coming forward].
I never knew a weary night before!
I have seen the sun a dozen times go down,
And still no William,—and the storm was on;
Yet have I laid me down, in peace, to sleep,
The mountain with the lightning all a-blaze,
And shaking with the thunder,—but, to-night,
Mine eyes refuse to close! The old man rests.
Pain hath outworn itself, and turn'd to ease.
How deathly calm's the night! What's that? I'm grown
An idiot with my fears. I do not know
The avalanche! Great Power that hurls it down,
Watch o'er my boy, and guide his little steps!
What keeps him? 'Tis but four hours' journey, hence;
He'd rest; then four hours back again. What keeps him?
Erni would sure be found by him—He knows
The track, well as he knows the road to Altorf!

Mel.
Help!

[In his sleep.
Emma.
What's the matter! Only the old man dreaming.
He thinks again they're pulling out his eyes.
I'm sick with terror! Merciful powers! what's this
That fills my heart with horrible alarm,
And yet it cannot see!

Mel.
[Waking.]
Where am I?

Emma.
Father!

Mel.
My daughter, is it thou? Thank heaven, I'm here.
Is't day yet?

Emma.
No.

Mel.
Is't far on the night?

Emma.
Methinks, about the turn on't.

Mel.
Is the boy
Come back?

Emma.
No, father.

Mel.
Nor thy husband?

Emma.
No.

Mel.
A woful wife and mother have I made thee!
Would thou hadst never seen me.

Emma.
Father!

Mel.
Child?

Emma.
Methinks I hear a step!—I do! [Knocking.]
A knock!

Mel.
'Tis William!

Emma.
No, it is not William's knock.
[Opens the door.
I told you so! Your will?

Enter Stranger.
Stran.
Seeing a light,
I e'en made bold to knock, to ask for shelter,
For I have miss'd my way.

Emma.
Whence come you, friend?

Stran.
From Altorf.

Emma.
Altorf!—Any news from thence?

Stran.
Ay! News to harrow parents' hearts, and make
The barren bless themselves that they are childless!

Emma.
May heaven preserve my boy!

Mel.
What says thy news?

Stran.
Art thou not Melchtal—he whose eyes 'tis said
The tyrant has torn out?

Mel.
Yes, friend, the same.

Stran.
Is this thy cottage?

Mel.
No; 'tis William Tell's.

Stran.
'Tis William Tell's!—And that's his wife!—Good night.

Emma.
[Rushing between him and the door.]
Thou stirr'st not hence until thy news be told!

Stran.
My news? In sooth 'tis nothing thou wouldst heed.

Emma.
'Tis something none should heed so well as I!

Stran.
I must be gone.

Emma.
Thou seest a tigress, friend,
Spoil'd of her mate and young, and yearning for them.
Don't thwart her! Come, thy news! What fear'st thou, man;
What more has she to dread, who reads thy looks,
And knows the most has come. Thy news? Is't bondage?

Stran.
It is.

Emma.
Thank heaven it is not death. Of one—
Or two?

Stran.
Of two.

Emma.
A father and a son?
Is't not?

Stran.
It is.

Emma.
My husband and my son
Are in the tyrant's power! There's worse than that!
What's that, is news to harrow parents' breasts,
The which the thought to only tell, 'twould seem,
Drives back the blood to thine?—Thy news, I say!
Wouldst thou be merciful, this is not mercy!
Wast thou the mark, friend, of the bowman's aim,
Wouldst thou not have the fatal arrow speed,
Rather than watch it hanging in the string?
Thou'lt drive me mad! Let fly at once!—

Mel.
Thy news from Altorf, friend, whate'er it is!

Stran.
To save himself and child from certain death,
Tell is to hit an apple resting on
The stripling's head.

Mel.
My child! my child!—
Speak to me!—Stranger, hast thou kill'd her?

Emma.
No!
No, father. I'm the wife of William Tell;
Oh but to be a man! to have an arm
To fit a heart bursting with the sense of wrong!
Unnatural—insufferable wrong!
When makes the tyrant trial of his skill?

Stran.
To-morrow.

Emma.
Spirit of the lake and hill,
Inspire thy daughter! On the head of him
Who makes his pastime of a mother's pangs,
Launch down thy vengeance by a mother's hand.
Know'st the signal when the hills shall rise?

[To Melchtal.
Mel.
Are they to rise?

Emma.
I see thou knowest naught.

Stran.
Something's on foot! 'Twas only yesterday
That, travelling from our canton, I espied,
Slow toiling up a steep, a mountaineer
Of brawny limb, upon his back a load
Of fagots bound. Curious to see what end
Was worthy of such labour, after him
I took the cliff: and saw its lofty top
Receive his load, which went but to augment
A pile of many another.

Emma.
'Tis by fire!
Fire is the signal for the hills to rise—

[Rushes out.
Mel.
Went she not forth?

Stran.
She did—she's here again
And brings with her a lighted brand.

Mel.
My child,
What dost thou with a lighted brand?

Re-enter Emma, with a brand.
Emma.
Prepare
To give the signal for the hills to rise!

Mel.
Where are the fagots, child, for such a blaze?

Emma.
I'll find the fagots, father.

[Exit.
Mel.
Is she gone
Again?

Stran.
She is—I think into her chamber.

Emma.
[Rushing in.]
Father, the pile is fired!

Mel.
What pile, my child?

Emma.
The joists and rafters of our cottage, father!

Mel.
Thou hast not fired thy cottage!—but thou hast!
Alas, I hear the crackling of the flames!

Emma.
Say'st thou alas! when I could say, thank heaven?
Father, this blaze will set the land a-blaze
With fire that shall preserve, and not destroy it,
Blaze on! blaze on! Oh, mayst thou be a beacon
To light its sons enslaved to liberty!
How fast it spreads! A spirit's in the fire;
It knows the work it does.
[Goes to the door, and opens it
The land is free!
Yonder's another blaze. Beyond that shoots
Another up!—Anon will every hill
Redden with vengeance. Father, come! Whate'er
Betides us, worse we're certain can't befal,
And better may! Oh, be it liberty—
Safe hearths and homes, husbands and children. Come—
It spreads apace. Blaze on—blaze on—blaze on!

[Exeunt.