SCENE I.

AND so he is constantly: noble hearted, good, full of sensibility, and thirst for action.

Does he never desire to know your fate?

O yes, he is never tired of asking—My answers are oracles. His being my pupil only, never enters his mind. And indeed I love him as my child!

Have you not given him a second life? With­out you, his brother's mournful fate would have befallen him.

I am not born for a pilgrim, and he found that out. I love better to speak of battles than to read a le­gend. He is better acquainted with the history of his country than that of the holy Antonius in the wilderness.

Hush! methinks I hear something. If he was listening—

Listening? Good Bruno, you come from a princely court. Here in this wilderness we listen to nightingales only. Henry is far enough. I have sent him to the lake to catch a mess of fish—I was fearful lest his questions would disturb the sensation which, at this work, I wish to nourish—Enough! Do you see the trunk? Let us go and lift it up, it is not heavy.

hah! how la­bour and frugality add to the strength, which is absorbed by age. Indeed, Bruno, eighteen years ago I lifted this trunk with less ease than to day.—There it is—I see it again, and think of the last look I gave it on covering it with earth—my wife was then at my side—at this tree she was leaning—the tree is green yet—Oh!—

here is the key—cov­ered with rust—we shall open the lock easier with the hatchet.

What ails you, good master, you weep?

Ah, Bruno! my wife's necklace first struck my view. Take it away and put it in your pocket.

No! no! I cannot see it in strange hands,

In these ornaments I conducted her to the marriage altar. In these ornaments she swore to me eternal fidelity, and she has kept her vow—till death—My lovely faithful Agnez! the chain which once adorned your neck—

it shall never be wrested from my heart.

You are moved, good Bruno.

I remember her benefactions. Twenty years ago, when illness stretched me on my bed, her attention comforted me.

Twenty years have elapsed since, and you recol­lect it still with grateful tears. But I, to whom she was every thing: I, whose hut she converted into a palace—Oh, what a precious jewel is a good housewife. Enough, Bruno, our country calls—be silent, my heart!—See here the swathing clothes in which Henry lay, when he in Agnez's arms escaped the bloody scene.—This here is the ring with the seal of the old Count—This the cup with the arms of Burgundy, which many a foreign prince took from my hands to take a welcome draught—Here underneath my armour, with helmet and sword—Let us see whether I can handle it yet—

—For God and my country! There is strength yet.

Henry's name will conquer his people, not the sword.

True brother, a son finds his way easy to the throne, when it is marked by the father's benefactions.

Master, I see people com­ing down from the mountain.

Let us carry the trunk into the chapel. If they are the women from the castle there will be no end to their questions.

Methinks they lead an old man.

perhaps the old knight Cuno. A brave man. A little too talkative. What pain it is to move the lips when the heart is affected. Come, assist.

SCENE II.

Two men went into the hut, carrying something that looked like a coffin: But Henry was not with them.

Elsbeth!

Here, father!

You run about like a colt; that is not becoming; you are fifteen years old, and should begin to walk modestly and softly.

Why is a step more modest than a leap?

A lively caper at a dance I should have no ob­jection to.

You carry your head so high and free; it shakes like a weather cock.

And the eyes! the eyes! they turn about like a flame in a wirlwind.

And the hands fly up and down, like the wings of a windmill.

And the hairs hang wildly round the neck, like cedar-twigs.

One finds fault with this, another with that! how shall I do to please them?

A modest young woman should trip it smooth and softly.

Not look about, but blink.

The hands must rest modestly in the lap.

The hairs, neatly curled close to the neck.

mother, get yourself a girl cut out of wood,

Naughty child! am I then cut out of wood? In my youth how often have I been at banquets sitting so stiff that they had to put a feather to my mouth, to know whether I was alive.

Banquets are no pleasure parties. Look at the Redbreast here in the bush, how it leaps and sings; above a Mag-Pie chattering, but it seems to care for nothing, father,—you are fatigued.

How you made me cough, running after you down the mountain.

That's always her way; at every hedge she leaves a piece of cloth.

And I dont know why you tore me out of my arm chair?

Mother Gertraud would not go with me, and alone I dare not.

Aye, aye, alone! when the Bee is out of the basket, there are ten swallows behind to catch it up.

sit down, father, on the grass bench. So—lean against the tree—slumber—I will link a few branches together that the sun cannot discommode you—

Now? Is it not better here than between the cold walls of the Castle? in that cool leather arm chair? I'll go to gather herbs for your Sallad, cresses, sorrel and spoon-wort.

SCENE III.

Miss Elsbeth, where are you going?

Let her go.

Quite alone?

Children, Mrs. Gertraud; we have been young too.

Aye, she is no more a child.

The better for her if she thinks so.

She runs to her destruction.

For these few steps, where is the danger.

One missstep is enough for a fall.

Here in the valley—

Even here in the valley, Knight, have you then observed nothing?

What should I observe?

That young boy, the pious Pilgrim's Son.—

Well?

She is fond of him.

Aye, aye, mother, has she told you so?

H'm! Such things young damsels never tell. She may scarcely know it herself.

And how do you know it then?

Miss Elsbeth has forgot sitting still, she is for ever walking out.

Well, but is that all.

To the North is a beautiful wood,—that is not her [Page 22] rout; to the South is a pleasant declivity reaching to the very lake—that does not attract her—westward a charming eminence, where the great poplar tree stands, there she finds no pleasure either—

Well, and whither walks she then?

Constantly to the East, where the rock is rough­est, and at every step the neck is in danger; always to this valley where the shoes at every step stick in the mud, and the sun at the meridian scarcely drys the dew.

H'm! h'm!

Henry is her first word at rising in the morning and her last at bed time.

h'm! h'm!

If I prepare a delicious soup or you have brought home some fine game, she never forgets, that Henry should have a bit of it.

H'm! h'm!

Of the fine wine, your brother Abbot sent you lately from Italy, she immediately hid a bottle behind her bed.—For whom, Lady?—she would not tell—but for whom else but Henry?

Aye, aye, this, to be sure, looks strange.

A Nosegay from him, common as the flowers may be, she never takes off her bosom till it is entirely de­cayed.—The roguish boy carves her name on every tree—yes, all must come out—this morning the naughty children have—I am ashamed, to tell—

What have they done then?

They have—I tremble thinking of it?—

Quick, quick, out with it!

they have kissed each other.

Kissed? aye, aye, that's too much.

If Walter of Blonay were to hear of that.

Yes, Mrs. Gertraud, he would quit the connex­ion, and that of right.

My advice would be to lock her up in her chamber.

The needle in her hand.

And the spinning-wheel.

And a holy legend.

And a prayer book.

What is the boy about, he is not of noble birth. Not long since I wished to take him as a page, for I liked his bold and fine appearance. I thought his father to be a disguised knight, driven by ill fate into this wilderness. A christian action it would have been, to give the boy, for God's sake, a noble education. But when I sounded the father about his birth and rank, I soon discovered him to be of low descent, with not a single helmet in his coat of arms.

Henry is however, a good boy, I can't deny that.

May be, Mrs. Gertraud, but he must let the girl alone. I'll speak to brother Peter a few words; he is prudent and pious, he will find advice.

Here comes the old man.

Then leave us to ourselves, and see where Els­beth is, loose her not out of sight.

Yes, yes, my eyes are well; but what of that, my bones will not carry me.

SCENE IV.

God bless you, pious man.

I thank you noble knight.

I have a friendly word to speak to you.

Speak.

You have a lively boy.

He is ripening to manhood.

Yes, I well observe that.

He feels himself.

A little too soon.

How so?

He runs after my Elsbeth.

You jest, knight.

Knighthood's honor and women's management, are things of which Cuno of Hallwyl does not make a jest.

What gives you reason?

H'm! Many things have happened—they love to be together.—

Children.

They trifle, they play.

Like children.

But they kiss each other!—Is that children's play?

No.

And consequently—

Are you assured of that?

Mother Gertraud has seen it with her own eyes.

No harm in it.

No harm? no harm? pious brother! you have grown so old and know not yet what a kiss means? If you have been chaste and modest all the days of your life, the better for you! but do'nt take it amiss, methinks the boy is not following your steps.

I thought, but—

Be so good as to listen to what I mean. I think when straw and fire is put together, it creates a flame—Pray send the boy off to Italy, the sooner the better,—war is there, he may serve the Milanese as a foot soldier.

My Henry a foot soldier!

And why not? he is not a nobleman? Better there to wound the enemy than here a father, who, without his dauthter, has neither treasure nor joy.

Be composed, noble knight, my Henry shall never wound you; this very day we quit this valley for­ever.

No, no, it was not meant so.

We follow our des­tiny.

Indeed! pious brother, you give unwelcome news—Your presence has brought blessing on my house—Re­luctantly I let you go—What is it that drives you so sud­denly from this peaceful valley? Has any of my subjects given you offence? Woe to him.

No, noble knight, the palm of peace has over­shawdowed eighteen years my quiet hut, thanks to you for it: my wants you helpfully supplied—Never shall I [Page 25] forget it. When dire disease laid my wife upon the sick bed, your kitchen and cellar were open; you yourself were day and night at her bed side; your tears dropped upon her sick bed—and at last upon her grave—that is engraven upon my heart!—

You move me, brother; you know I am not rich myself, and would have willingly done more.

The more generous of you. A bit of bread and heartfelt joy, are benefactions, which the rich seek in vain in their silver chests. It shall, by God, not re­main unrewarded to you.

You have often rewarded me, by good advice and pious prayers.

Stay with me, brother Peter! we are both old, why will you leave me? an old tree never takes root in foreign soil. Old men should not be separated, they do not so easily attach themselves to what is new. If you are not pleased any longer here in the valley? move up to the castle.

I cannot, I must be gone.

Have you persecuting enemies? In the castle you are secure.

My Agnez's grave chains me more to this soli­tude than your prayers. But I cannot stay; love and duty—soon, noble knight, you shall learn what alone was able to draw me back to the world's tumult.

Then God be with you! you are a prudent ex­perienced man, you best know what is fit for you. When will you depart?

This very hour.

So soon? I wish to furnish you first with vict­uals for the journey. I have this morning killed a sine deer, we will get it roasted.

Thanks! we want but little.

SCENE V.

Father, the sun shine so bright to day, the fish won't touch the hook. Blessing to you, noble knight! Is Miss Elsbeth with you?

May be.

Where? where?—There father take the fish and let me go.

Stay. I have to speak to you.

Are you in haste?

I am.

( [...]) Speak then.

I will not interrupt you. Adieu, pious brother. You will, I hope not leave this abode without a farewell draught?

Each moment of delay would be treason to my country.

Then go, and may God be with you. I am sor­ry. In distant regions, forget me not in your prayers.—Farewell!—No, we part not yet. I'll go for Elsbeth, and then pass this way again.

SCENE VI.

What is he muttering about? Parting! A fare­well draught.

We must go.

What does that mean?

Your wishes are fulfiled.

Which?

You was desirous of going into the wide world.

And that shall be?

This very day.

You are jesting, father?

I speak in earnest. The strange pilgrim has brought me intelligence—

Inform me of its purport?

My country is distracted—it wants my arm.

Your country?—I am ashamed to ask; where is your country?

Where we are going.

(whose uneasiness encreases) Indeed?—but who meanwhile will mind our houshold?

Henceforth we want it not.

The hut will fall to pieces, the garden decay—

Even so?

Better for me to stay and keep every thing in order.

How? would you let me go alone?

I am so young your country would have no confidence in me.

But I—I need a valiant youth, who, standing by my side, will learn of me to fight, conquer—and to die—

To die?

And why not? man is born to learn, and dies to learn. In death the feeblest old man triumphs over the strongest youth.

You shall not fall,

here is your shield.

Right, my son! you see I cannot do without you.

Well then!—I must accompany you—but when shall we return?

Never.

Never! What do you mean? The fight can­not last forever. We will combat bravely till winter comes, then return and enjoy tranquility under our straw roof.

Henry, what's that? I understand you not—Not farther back than this morning each hour seemed to oppress you; even this morning you desired impetuously to travel into the world; and now at my meeting you half way, you deem your obedience a sacrifice?

Father, I know it not myself—I am in a sad disposition—I conceive it not—you are a prudent man, explain it me? why the world sometimes seems to me to be too narrow, and then again I would not change yonder hut for the emperor's throne of Trapezunt?

Habit—

Be it what it will, you must promise me a spee­dy return, or I shall grieve to death!

I can promise you nothing.

You are my good father—I would willingly obey you—indeed with all my heart—but—I must confess—Miss Elsbeth is so dear to me!

What is Elsbeth to you?

A great deal. She has, I know not how, stolen into my heart—wherever I am, she is with me; where­ver I go she hovers before me. In the wood she stands be­hind every tree, and in the hut her rays appear from eve­ry corner. If I lay down, she sits before me; when I awake she still sits there.

Separation will cure you.

Yes, if I was but gone! but—be not angry, Father—I cannot go!

Henry, if I tell you, that a person is yet alive, to whom nature has given stronger pretensions to your heart, than to this damsel?—If I tell you that you still have a mother?

I a mother? does not yonder hill cover her grave?

My Agnez has saved your life, but not given it you. She was your infancy's faithful nurse, yet she who brought you to this world lives still.

She lives?—Who am I then?—Have you ever been married to her?—Disowned your wife, and took another?—or are you not my father?

If love and care give a right to that title—

Not otherwise?

No.

Alas! you rob me of a father whom I love, and give me a mother whom I do not know.

Hasten to her arms!

I will not. I do not wish a strange mother!—I entreat you for God's sake! stay my father!—I have so long since accustomed myself to love you as a child, and I am now to deliver up my heart to strange hands.

To a mother's hands.

That sounds fine, but

this does not echo to it. Never have I known my mother; by what benefaction has she attached me to her? What pretension of hers can out balance yours?

The rights of nature.

Nature, nature—I know not what that means. Have you then made an alliance with nature to win my heart? Can I love my mother more than you? More than Miss [Page 29] Elsbeth?—In God's name, how came I to be an orphan all at once!—For pity's sake! stay father, or I throw my­self into the stream!—

Be consoled, I shall remain your father, as long as you may acknowledge me for it.

As long as I live! as long as a drop of blood—

Well then! a father may require obedience of his son. Prepare for your departure. Before sun-set we quit this valley.

Without taking leave of my Elsbeth?

You have invested me with a father's rights. We have not to loose a moment. Soon you shall know why!

SCENE VII.

How am I?—all used to be serene about me—now all so dark—the rock seems to be higher—the valley nar­rower—the high trees make too much shade—I am peevish—I must weep—

a mother?—what is that?—who can tell me what it is?—I have no sense for it—and what shall I do at her abode?—can she not come to me?—will she tear me from Miss Elsbeth?—that is not the way to my heart—no, no, no.

SCENE VIII.

Ah Elsbeth! dear Elsbeth.

Do I look like a boy

You jest and I am half dead.

You? let us see, how one looks, when one is half dead? red cheeks—clear eyes—

Full of tears.

Tears?—Indeed, I perceive one, Henry, are you unwell?

Would to God—

Fy, what a wish!

Bad enough. Yes, would to God I were ill! then my father would be obliged to leave me behind.

What are you talking about?—Quick! be­fore my father and Gertraud overtake me.

I—ah, Elsbeth!

this will become my funeral garland!

For God's sake! torment me not.

I must go!

Where to?

Into the wide world!

Why?

To fight—to kill men—

What have they done to you?

To me?—nothing at all—They might all live for me to the day of judgement.

Well then let them live and stay here.

I dare not.

But you will soon return, I hope?

That's the very thing—I shall not return—Eslbeth! I shall never see you again!—

Never see me again—then I shall not see you again either?

Ah? that breaks my heart!

Dear Henry! you alarm me—weep not—

Look at me—speak rea­son—who desires it then, that you never shall see me again?

My father, and yet not my father—

Are you raving?

He just now left me—just now he discovered to me, that I am not his son.

God forbid! Henry, a father certainly you will have!

It's all the same to me. If this is not my father, I won't have another.

Why not? There are more good fathers in the world. For instance my father—if he would take you for my brother—how funny it would be.

H'm! would not be very funny. A sister one dares not marry.

Will you then really marry me?

Indeed! I love you above all—more than you love me.

That's not true,

It's true enough. See, my eyes are full of tears—my heart is filled with grief—and you remain in good humour.

I think, Henry, if you love me so much—so very much; you would soon return—is it not so, Henry?

If I dare.

Who will prevent you?

My mother.

Who is your mother.

How do I know! it is a mother whom I never saw.

But certainly a good women, if she is your mother. Be composed, Henry, there is my hand, I will become your wife and no other's.

Do you promise that?

I do.

Swear.

How shall I swear?

By your Patroness.

Well, I swear by the holy Agatha!

You will not marry Walter of Blonay?

Never.

You will wait for news of poor Henry?

Most certainly!—Be now friendly again.

Ah! It's all very fine and good; but how can I. be friendly? We are to part—

When?

This very day, before sun-set, we leave this valley, so says my father.

What is that: Parting? How shall we do that?

You give me your hand—I shake it heartily—you look at me sorrowfully—I weep—you say farewell— [Page 32] and I say farewell—then one goes this and the other that way.

Ah, Henry! that's hard!

Very hard!

Stay with me!

Aye! and you beg too—

Stay with me!

Yes, if you move me so—

Elsbeth! I'll stay with you!

SCENE IX.

Father, I cannot go with you! Elsbeth loves me—she begs—she weeps—I am distract­ed—and—in short—I cannot go with you!

Then I shall tell your mother that she has borne an undutiful child.

Say what you please. Whoever bears this saint at his heart is not without affection.

And your mother?

Why did she throw me from her.

But, if till now she thinks you dead?

Then leave her in that opinion. Long since she has done grieving for that loss.

How? you would not give joy to her that gave you life? The bird in his nest fondly flutters to its mo­ther—

Because she has a worm in her bill for its nourishment. But what has my mother done for me?

She has suffered for you.

Anxiety, love, hope, desire, is true life! All that is given to me by Elsbeth, she alone is my mother! therefore I'll stay with her, exchange love for love, will hope as a boy, desire as a youth, and combat for the pos­session of her, like a man!

If your heart overcomes your reason, remem­ber at least a father's right, which you have voluntarily conferred on me. You must go with me.

You say, you must!—Elsbeth says nothing—she only looks at me—and I can only obey her.

Miss, I claim my son from you.

Will you bring him back again to me?

I can promise nothing.

Go alone! Tell his mother to come here, and she will find a son and daughter.

A precious thought! Yes father! go alone!

Your Henry shall mean while want for nothing.

Remember me to my mother!

And return soon.

I am troublesome to you, it seems. Well Miss! If your father has no objection.

My father is a good pious Man.

Here he comes. Ask him yourself.

SCENE X.

Did I not say so? on our left she vanished be­hind a bush, and on our right hand we find her again.

Aye! aye!

Father, the pious brother Peter will leave us.

So I hear.

But Henry must stay, say?

He stay here? and why?

Because I love him so much—almost as much as I love you.

And she says that with as little reserve as if she was repeating a rosary. Naughty child!

Elsbeth, have you renounced all female modesty?

How so, father?

You must love but your bridegroom, Walter of Blonay; and even to him you must not discover it so bluntly.

He certainly will not hear of it by me.

Henry goes with his father, and you stay at home in your chamber till you are conducted to the marriage altar.

Do you hear, Elsbeth?

Grieve not; remember my promise.

Oh, noble knight! keep me at your castle as the meanest servant: I will mind your horses and feed your dogs. Dear mother Gertraud, pray speak a good word for me. I will catch birds for your old cat, and tap you on your back when you are coughing.

My old cat will have enough to eat without you.

Go with your father, Henry, that's becoming a son. Here is no abode for you.

Enough, children, my hours are counted: we must part.

Part?—hear you, Elsbeth?

I will hear nothing—I will not part.—

You must—Farewell, brother Peter! It goes to my heart to lose you, but who knows to what it may lead. This thoughtless damsel gives me trouble.—Travel under God's protection! and remember me in your prayers.

As often as I shall meet a noble hearted man, I shall remember you. Farewell!

allow the children a last farewell.

Now make haste! shake hands!

Then we must part indeed, Elsbeth! Farewell.

(Also weeping) Forget me not!

Remember your oath!

By the holy Agatha!

When you ramble here, speak to me as if I was here.

Be always brave and love me.

There in the garden is a rose-bush, I have plan­ted it for you, water it sometimes.

With my tears—

My pigeons I give you, feed them.

Out of my mouth.

The poor children move my heart.

Away Elsbeth! 'tis enough!

Farewell!

Farewell!

God's blessing on the journey!

May the saints attend you wherever you go?

Go, go, my heart breaks!

Farewell, Henry!

Farewell, Elsbeth.

Compose yourself, son, be a man!

If a man dare not weep, I will not be a man.

Henry! dear Henry! Forget me not!^* (she gives him the floweret and goes away.)

(Drying his tears and looking at the flower) H'm!—What does this flower avail? to-marrow it will be wither'd. (He puts it on his hat) Had she given me a handkerchief or a ribbon, I would have revered it more than the relics of the convent of Einsiedeln, I would have tied it round my arm, or pinned it to my helmet, and then away into the throngest ranks of the enemy. Hah, fa­ther! If we are not to remain among friends, I wish we were already amidst the tumult of our foes.

Well then, my son, take your walking stick! the sun is lowering in the west, the birds sing their even­ing songs, it is high time.

If we had but the Alps in our rear; if but the castle was not so high, as to remain so long in view.

Look forwards. Patience Henry! When time and separation are united, they extinguish flaming letters in the hearts of men.

Never, father! Lead me to the holy sepulchre; tell me: on this stone sat the prophesying angel, and there my eyes will behold Elsbeth.

Great events await you

Great events shall meet with a man in me, if Elsbeth is the price.

The path from this wildesness leads perhaps to a throne.

You jest. And do we sit easier upon a throne than here under this appletree? What think you father? If with your left hand you could take hold of a sceptre, [Page 36] and with your right draw the good Agnez from the grave, which would you do?

Your youthful passion is like Aurora's feeble beam; but matrimonial bliss is like the glowing bright­ness of the meridian sun.

Good! My meridian will also in its course arrive. Elsbeth or no other!

Deserve her.

Lead me to the battle! glory or death!

SCENE XI.

We are ready to depart.

Messenger of woe!

I a messenger of woe,? hah, if you knew—

Rally not.

In this bundle I carry for you a knightly armor.

For me? What means that? who am I? speak!

That leads us too far. Patience my son, 'till evening at the first inn you shall know your fate.

One question more you will grant me, before we leave this valley: Does my birth favor my union with Elsbeth?

No.

How miserable am I! Why has not one of my ancestors met with a girl like Elsbeth! Love would have made him a knight.

Honor's open arms await you, let us hasten!

Ah!

How?—Shall I then turn my back to you little hut, which for eighteen years has given me a friend­ly shelter?—Is not one wet eye of gratitude to be cast on you?—Fy on the man who suffers shipwreck, and can without feeling burn the piece of board, upon which he safely reached the shore. How many serene moments have [Page 37] love, hope, and piety created for me here!—May lightening and storm spare your rotten roof! and give shelter to many a weary pilgrim! May the doves contin­ue to coo on the tops of these cedar trees, and fetch their food from this garden, where henceforth no one will dis­trub them.

But ah! whose hand will nurse the plants which orna­ment my Agnez's grave?—Agnez!—to seperate myself from your dust!—

go, Bruno, follow him, Henry—one moment more for my heart! Then I belong to you and our country.

Well, let us then in God's name begin our journey!

There it is! Lead in my feet. Give me a push in my back, to make me tumble forwards.

This sword is for you, Baron!

For me?

Let me carry it, it might hinder you in walk­ing.

Old boy! if you are fatigued, I'll take you yourself on my back. Hah! Elsbeth! I have a sword.

SCENE I.

YOU have travelled through the world, Nicholas, where did you like it best?

Arles is my native place, and at home a drink of water relishes better, than on foreign soil, the best of wine.

Thank God! we may now on Sunday drink again a glass of wine together.

You have been but badly off for some time back.

Ah! Nicholas, God meant it well with you, that he did not bring you sooner back to your home. All was upside down here.

I was but a boy, when the wicked Count Ulrich killed our pious Count Albrecht.

Brother-slaughter! oh!

And yet the murderer died quietly on his bed?

On his bed he died, it's true, but quiet?

He could not even dose quietly. A prince who goes to bed without a good action, goes without consolation to his grave. At the first knock of my hammer in the morning, suddenly there came a guard from the palace: Mr. Benedict, the Count orders you to leave off hammering! it disturbs his morning slumber. H'm! I murmured to myself: can he also defend the hammering of his conscience?—

It's a wonder he did'nt drive you from your house.

This almost happened once—"Your hut," he said, disfigures the place before the palace;"—My lord, I answered: Integrity and industry are the occupants of this hut; would to God! we could say that of many a pal­ace"—" I will buy your hut," continued he—"I will not sell it. My great, great, grandfather has built it, my father repaired it, I was born and educated in it. My old father is blind and can find his way in it without dan­ger. But if I bring him to a strange house he will knock out his brains."—What answer do you think my lord deigned to give me?—"Well then", he said, stroking his beard; and what of that?"—

The tyrant!

In short, my house would have been gone, if Block the cabinet-maker had not been on friendly terms with the court jester—he brought things in order.

There was Count Albrecht, God grant him a happy resurrection! quite a different man.

Indeed he was! always friendly and good. Here he often would stop to look at my work, and when the sun was burning, he would never suffer me to take off my hat. Many a time he drank out of my silver cup.—I still see him passing by here, his little sons hopping round him. Oh! the dear little ones! they would take off their caps before every mechanic—nod to every fruit woman—and if they met a beggar, how quick they would put their little hands in their pockets, and filled, with silver pieces, hold them to the poor.—Oh! It goes to my very heart, when I think, how unmercifully they all were sent to the grave!

None escaped?

No, not one. I myself heard in that woful night the groans of the dying—the lamentations of the Count's attendants—the piercing cries of the mother proceeding from the palace windows.

The old Countess lives still?

It would be better for her, if she was dead. To spare her was worse than murder. The good Lady buried herself in a Convent. She may have forgot hus­band and children, but the splendor of high life, and the [Page 40] thirst for revenge, she cannot forget, it is said.—It's na­tural, she was mother—I am only a burgher, but could I find one of the murderers, I would hammer him into a hoop.

Count Ulrich's son, they say, promises well?

He is but a boy. A thorn-bush never bears plumbs. As long as Count Hugo of Werdenberg, the governor, guides his youth—that's a worthy knight.

See there, master, what an uproar at the city gates?—

What's that to us? a drunken man perhaps.

I see halberds fly.

No matter. It is no more than it was in former times, when even the most honest of us went out of the way of every page.

The tumult encreases—they approach.

Now? what can that be?

SCENE II.

Here, citizens of Arles! here, to the palace­yard.

Neighbour Block, what's the matter?

Friend Benedict, leave your work! shocking things! the day of revenge is arrived!

Revenge! Revenge!

Revenge? on whom? wherefore?

Bring the murderers here! let them bleed under the palace windows!

What murderers?

Pilgrims have been taken, the Count's sealing ring has been found upon them.—

And the cup with the Burgundian arms.

Hah! Just heaven! The avenging angel con­ducted them to Arles! Where are they?

They have been carried to prison—

Bring them forward! ring the alarm-bell!

Blessing on me, that I live to see this day! Do you see, Nicholas, how these men are still attached to their murdered lord? Thus benefactions shoot like flowers from the grave of the just, rise Count Albrecht's spirit! from your vault, and behold your blood's revenge glowing in the love of your people.

Some voices cry: the Governor! the go­vernor!

SCENE III.

What is it, children? what has happened here?—

I understand you not. Speak singly.

Speak, Mr. Martin! (All are silent.)

I was some days journey in the country about business. On my return, in a village a league from here night overtook me, and after having sent on my cattle, I laid down with other strangers upon the straw. It was dark. But when day light appeared, I awoke, and cast a glance upon the sleeping Strangers. An old man in Pilgrim's habit lay at my side. His cloth had been disordered. I saw an armour under his habit, which excited my curiosity. I looked at him attentively, and perceived on his finger a ring with a seal, exactly resem­bling the ring of our murdered Count, which I often heard described, when it was missing.

Count Albrecht's murderer! he is found! revenge! blood!

Silence! Silence! Let him continue speaking!

My blood chilled. Yet I was uncertain till I discovered at the old man's feet, a large silver cup—they may have been drinking the evening before on their hap­py [Page 42] return—when I took up the cup, the arms of Burgun­dy stared me in the face.

Enough! Enough! bring him here!

Silence, brethren! Let your fellow citizen fi­nish his account!

I was on the point of drawing my knife to send the villain to hell, when he opened his eyes. Beside him lay a fine youth, and another man in Pilgrim's habit. He roused them and they took their way towards the city. I kept them company, not to loose sight of them. On the way the old man asked me many questions; whether the people still loved the memory of their good old Count Albrecht? whether they hated his murderers? and some such things. He also spoke of you, Governor, and seemed to rejoice when he learnt that you were still living and in good health. At our arrival at the gates, I called the guards. We found in their travelling bag among other suspicious things, Swathing clothes, mark­ed with the Burgundian arms, and the letter H, under a Lordly Crown. They certainly have once belonged to the poor little Count Henry, whose innocent blood the villain has spilt.

Revenge! Blood! Bring them here!

Citizens of Arles! You have suffered under an oppressive yoke. You know, what may be the evil consequence of a precipitate sentence. Be slow in pu­nishing! examine carefully! the prisoners cannot es­cape you. Hear them, and judge coolly that the smoke of innocent blood may not again rise from this ground.

He is right!—Let us hear them—quick! quick!

Behold, the guards are already conducting the old man towards us!

This way, guards! this way to the blood tribunal!

SCENE IV.

Place him in our centre.

He desired to be brought before the people.

See whether he has an armour under his habit?

Yes! yes!

Look for the ring at his finger.

Yes! yes!

Cut him down! tear him to pieces! stone him to death!

Guards protect him! away with you! a few minutes only!—hear him! citizens of Arles! if you love me!—I en­treat you [...] the ashes of your murdered lord!

Back! back! he has desired to speak to the people. Let us hear what the criminal has to say.

Silence! In the name of justice! let her bal­ance the scales, and then strike with the sword.

You have heard what heavy crimes you are accused of.

An ignominious death threatens the innocent in vain! tears of joy roll down my cheeks, and wet the chains which I carry with honor. After eighteen years elapse, I behold with extacy the love of the citizens still fervent for my good Count Albrecht. He was my friend, my benefactor! woe to his murderers!

His friend?—his benefac­tor?—

Citizens of Arles! formerly my dear fellow citizens! is there not one among you, that recognizes me?

Nor you my brother in arms?

Indeed! this voice does not sound strange to me!

My God! have time and grief thus disfigured my features? Is there not one who in his native place bids welcome to Hans of Bonstetten?

Hans of Bonstetten?—'Tis he!

Hans of Bonstetten my friend, and brother! has the grave vomited you again?—

Yes, yes, I remember him.

And I too.

A brave and good man.

The bosom friend of our Court!

Take off his chains! Let us carry him on our hands to the grave of our murdered lord.

Yes, to the grave of my good Albrecht! hasten, citizens of Arles! behold his only son, crown him as your lawful sovereign!

his son! his son!

Overcome your surprise! hear me! hear a friend's voice. In that dreadful night, when the clash­ing of the swords of hired murderers, and the groans of the dying surrounded me; when my good master al­ready lay bleeding at my feet, and his elder sons were drawing their last breath; I called my wife, to whose care the youngest child was entrusted: Agnez, I cried, save your precious nursling! the Count's ring I took from the finger of the corpse, the silver cup I snatched from the table. By a secret door we escaped and reached the open air. In the darkness of the night, through swamps and bushes, through thorns and thistles, we walked on unused roads. The sun rose but to perplex us, for he gave light to our pursuers. During day we hid ourselves in cornfields, and silenced our hunger with unripe corn, God guarded your prince! we reached the frontiers of Burgundy. Thence I sent my old companion, my faith­ful servant Bruno, back. He was to wait in silence, till he could bring me news of better times. At the foot of the Alps, in a poor hermit's hut, I took care of the dear pledge, confided to me by God. The boy has ri­pened to youthful beauty. Citizens of Arles! to day I brought him back to you! take him, and your future hap­piness from my hands!

Where—where!—

He has been carried with me to prison. The hand that is to sway you, is in fetters.

Along! along! he lives! he lives! Al­brech's son.

Am I awake?—or in a dream?

Give me your hand, Hugo! we often parted on this spot squeezing each others hands, when we returned from the joyous feasts at the castle.

Ah! what is become of those fine times!

They will return. My Henry is a beautiful sprig of the old Burgundian stem. I educated him as a man, poor and low; blessing on the prince, who knows poverty!

Where is your good Agnez?

Do not obscure this hour to me?

I understand you.

Long live Count Henry of Burgundy!

Hah! they return already—Rejoice, Hugo, you will see a noble youth.

SCENE V.

There he is! the young Count—an eye, like his father's!—his father's smiling countenance—Long live Count Henry!

Let us see him too! we cannot behold him! lift him up!

Put him here upon my barrel.

Long live Count Henry of Burgundy!

He weeps! He weeps!

Your first sight of [Page 46] me inspires you with love; for this I have to thank my father—May his blessing be upon me.

Count Albrecht's blessing on his good son!

If I cannot be to you, what he was,—I at least will love you as he did—

Give with me, thanks to God for my miraculous preservation.

We thank you, God!

Where is he? where—where?

Hah! his mother!

SCENE VI.

Your son! your son! (pointing with their fingers to Henry.)

My Mother!

Long live Matilda! Long live Henry!

am I a mother yet?—is this my son?—the only one who was saved!—

oh! In this world we can forget all, but ma­ternal love.

Give me your blessing!

The blessing of your dear father be with you! a prince must be blessed by his people, not by his mother.

I will deserve the love of my people, and yours. By God! I will!

Hah! my solitary cell will for the first time re-echo the maternal joy! no more shall I pray for re­venge [Page 47] before the Crucifix!—thanks!—thanks!—Oh how much a mother loves to speak these words to the Father of us all!

Gracious Countess, allow an old faithful ser­vant to kiss the border of your garment.

Knight Hans of Bonstetten! oh, will it ever be in my power to reward you.

Woe to my heart, if such a scene did not re­ward it!

When for the last time you bid me good night in yonder hall—who could have thought, that the dawn of morning would be eighteen years after!—Where is your good Agnez?

Her morning has not yet dawned.

I conceive,—you and I have but one son now.

Count Henry of Burgundy, deign me to be the first who swears allegiance to his new master.

Do not make me blush. Do not deprive me of the sweet name, which my heart cannot renounce! Call me your son! Be not ashamed of me before the people's face.

My son!

People of Burgundy! If I once fulfil your hopes, if I succeed, in indemnifying you for the loss of my father, you will thank this man for it! He took nothing with him into the wilderness but what no tyrant could deprive him of—his virtues! I loved him when a child, I admired him when a youth, I shall imitate him when a man. He is not the first after me, he is the first above me! Whatever good through me may flow to you, are but the unfolded germs of his plantation. Could I ever forget, what he was to me—what he is—and will remain; then may God forget me forever!

It is but a trifling merit, to raise good fruits from noble germs.

Son! what I see and hear of you, makes me proud to be your mother.

SCENE VII.

Revenge! bloody revenge!

What's that?

Oh mercy! they have tied me.

Who dares to tie this innocent boy?—I hope, Count, you will not tarnish the first hours of your reign with a cruelty? This boy is Ulrich's son, your cousin!

Welcome, cousin!

His father has murdered yours. But the son is not to expiate the father's crimes.

Kill me not! I will love you.

Is he of that race?—hah! how the sight of him recalls all the terrors of past times! how it opens the graves that are overgrown with grass, how murdered corpses begin again to bleed!—Away with him from my sight, lest grief might tempt me to unnoble revenge.

What is she angry at?

This pious hypocri­tical look you inherited from your father; this deceitful smile you stole from your mother.

Father and mother are dead.

Who could hate this fine boy? untie him.

I thank you, it was so painful.

Be careful, son! do not nourish a serpent in your bosom.

I am a good boy.

Your brothers blood calls for revenge!

Revenge for the living! Tears for the dead. If blood could open their graves, mine should flow.—Come here to me, my boy! what's your name?

My name is Guido.

Will you be my brother?

Willingly. What's your name, then?

Henry.

Then you are my brother Henry?

Yes, I promise it to you in the face of God and my people!

Right, my son!

May you never repent it!

Be no more angry. I am afraid of you.

Leave me! time only can reconcile me to your sight.

Tell me, brother Henry, what have I done to her?

Be always good, and you will win her heart.

Yes, I'll be always good.

What do you think, shall I give her this rosary?

My brave boy!

Henry, I am contented with you; you have learnt to govern yourself; now, and not till now, you de­serve to govern men.

Not yet, father; I have done but what my heart commanded.

Noble Count, the citizens of Arles are desirous to welcome you according to old custom. They are going to bring you present, as many centuries ago the most respectable of the citizens brought to their first good prince.

Their approbation, their tears, were they not the most exquisite presents?

Never deny your people, what may give them pleasure.

Go children, and do, what can give you plea­sure.

Away, to the town-house! the presents! the old custom!

Are you coming with us, brother Henry?

I shall soon follow you, my dear boy.

SCENE VIII.

What makes my good mo­ther so thoughtful?

I?—Nothing!—All my senses are chained by the lovely dream.—I could not pray even—unless our Maker would accept these tears as an offering of thanks!—I am not ill, yet so faint—so fatigued—

Permit me to conduct you to your former re­sidence.

Not there! my son! not yet!—From those gates the murderers have drawn your mother by her hair.

Do not draw the past from its obscurity.

Do you see that open window?—Ah! there in yonder hall!—

There, Countess, you were betrothed to the noble Albrecht.

There have I seen my children's blood foaming against the walls!

I entreat you, mother—a veil over those images.

No, not there!—Leave me my son!—Even pleasure wants respite. Allow me to take breath!—

Stay, my son. There are moments, in which even love becomes oppressive. Let me ask you: how do you feel?

Well, my father.

To have the people's happiness at ones heart, is great and noble! Is it not my son?

The heart of man is too narrow for such a sensation.

It is that narrowness of heart, that makes a man think himself of superior quality to whom millions look up.

It is the gratitude of millions only that can justify such a thought.

I told you, you would forget your youthful whims. Have I been in the right?

No, my father, you have been a bad prophet.

How?—Still the same—

Now and ever! now more than ever! The youthful dream has been realized by a miracle. My hopes were foolish; heaven has taken pity of my folly! I wear to day another coat, my heart beats under it the same as before; you call me Count of Burgundy, and I feel still that I am poor Henry.

Youth!

Is the sweet feeling, to render men happy, in­divissible? Does it not gain higher attraction, by sharing it? Dare a Prince not to be a father? Must he not be a father; to learn in a small circle what he is to execute in a great one?

He dares and must.

A prince, who is husband and father—was not this your own remark of yesterday?—has a tender feeling for the welfare of his subjects; he will not tear from a wife her husband, nor deprive a mother of her son, to carry him into war, which is perhaps excited by whim or ambition. But a prince who invites peace with forbear­ance, will be presented by his princess with a garland, to ornament the welcome guest.

Right, my son! have I then desired of you, to remain unmarried?

Then let us send messengers to Hallwyl.

Why to Hallwyl!

I have given my word: Elsbeth or none!

What Henry promised—

Count of Burgundy will perform!

It becomes you not.

It becomes me not—a wicked word! Bad actions are as unbecoming the prince as the beggar. But to crown beauty and virtue, methinks is princely.

Youth! You have till now seen but few dam­sels, and love in Elsbeth, but the sex.

Well, then invite to court all the daughters of the country; I will look at them all as at a bed of flowers: [Page 52] here a beautiful tulip; there an odoriferous violet: here an innocent lilly; there a scented pink—Oh! they are all nothing in comparison to the queen of flow­ers, the glowing rose.

Indeed, Henry, you have a turn for poetry. But learn first your people's wish, your mother's council; follow the one, and obey the other.

Do not deny my first re­quest!

Rise, my son, what is your wish?

You bestowed your blessing on your son—ah! you have a daughter too.

A daughter?

In the Swiss mountains there dwells a valiant knight, his family is noble and renowned; but the most noble of her sex is Elsbeth of Hallwyl—my beloved—let me add: my wife!

Do I hear right? you are married?

Not without your blessing. Speak a friendly word, and I fly to the arms of my graceful bride.

Rise, my son. What answer can I give you? you are of age.

My Henry knows that a son in his mother's presence, never is of age.

I know it, and wait my judgment.

A Baroness Hallwyl you mentioned?

This name comprises all that is good and beau­tiful!

You know her, Bonstetten?

I know her. She wants nothing but equal birth.

A nobler creature was never born.

Count of Burgundy! the hearts of princes are subject to the people.

To choose another consort, were depriving my people of a mother.

You must support your throne by brilliant allian­ces.

Even without splendor, virtue is a powerful support.

The rich heiress of Savoy—

Do not finish the sentence, mother—

She would bring you a principality as a dowry.

Without Elsbeth, I will even renounce what I possess already.

She is handsome and good.

Here is no space left for any other beauty.

Examine first your heart.

A heart that remained firm in the intoxication of fortune, wants no other proof.

Wait a year at least.

I dare not delay, another sues for her possession. Ah! if it already was too late!

You destroy my dearest wishes, deprive me of high views.

A purple coat^* is not the garment of domestic happiness; a heart without love remains cold even under a furr coat.

Knight of Bonstetten, tell me in sincerity, what you think of it?

Shall I speak as a man or as a courtier?

Speak as a father.

Well then! I have seen these young plants en­twine their roots I am not able to separate them.

Thanks! thanks! for this paternal word.—Oh! my mother! what means your serious silence?

Indeed, eighteen years of soli­tude have taught me to distinguish truth. I know the tears of anxiety and love.—Ah! I know them!—You have sub­dued my pride, go and obey the wishes of your heart!

Father!—Mother!—

SCENE IX.

It's well you come, dear Count; you have gained my confidence—

Too soon, my noble young master! confidence is not a piece of coin, to put upon the hazard of a die; we must not gain, but deserve it.

The opportunity is at hand. I employ you as my suitor.

For your future spouse?

Count Hugo, you are a Courtier. If I am to confide in you, I must travel with you myself. I myself!—excellent!—a numerous suite accompa­nies the ambassador of Burgundy, myself amongst them as a page; hide myself behind his attendants; to be wit­ness of Elsbeth's charming bashfulness;—hear her re­fuse the Count of Burgundy for Henry's sake! hear how the prince in vain endeavours to dispossess the poor her­mit's son from her heart.—All this I shall see and hear, run to her arms and with a kiss—snatch the approach­ing terror from her lips!—happy Henry! you will ra­diate above all the sons of princes! for, which of them can say: The girl loved me, and not my purple!

Still I am at a loss—

You shall know all—and when shall we set off?—to-morrow early—no, the days are hot—in the cool of the evening—or—at this moment—the sun is setting.

Henry, it is yet but noon. Devote this day at least to your people.

The most solemn day for them is yet to come! that day when I with Elsbeth at my side will enter the gates of Arles, when old and young stare at us with admiration; when the children will smilingly stretch out their little hands, while they fancy they behold an angel; and old men with emotion exclaim: Now we may die contented—O mother! mother!

SCENE X.

My hands tremble; but of pleasure; my eyes are wet; but with tears of joy!—Accept, noble Count, according to immemorial custom, the trifling pre­sents of our city, It is an old custom. I beg you to consider: that love to our princes is also an old custom.

Your love is my paternal in­heritance. What I have not to acquire, I shall at least know how to preserve.

Father of our country, give us soon a mother.

I thank you, my child. Before these myrtles decay, your wishes shall be fulfilled.

Noble Count, take this lamb, the emblem of our innocence. It can yet but leap and play; but under your care it will grow, and give milk and wool.

Take this, and carry it to your parents.

I am an orphan.

Then I give you a mother!—attendants give me some wine! the cup is empty! the presents of my people, are flown back to them. Your love is the only present I preserve in my bosom; you have exchanged your hearts for mine.

Long live my peo­ple!

Blessing on our fine young lord!

Prosperity! and blessing!

SCENE I.

ARE you tired at last with singing, little warbler? What makes you pick so much at the wire? you want to get out?—Will you desert me too, you only crea­ture, to whom I may complain of what oppresses me!—Tarry only, till Henry returns—Oh! he'll come for certain!—

God knows, why I cannot sing;—my throat is not sore, but strangled.—Formerly when I was leaping down the mountain, I sang louder than you, dear Lin­net! that Henry might know me at a distance. Now every thing is so silent about me, that I can hear the moving of the time-piece at the wall.—It perhaps points to my last hour!—Well then!—If Henry not returns—

Of this flax they shall weave my shroud; it is wetted with my tears!—

SCENE II.

Be joyful, Miss! all troubles are at an end.

Is Henry here?

What! Henry! he may go on a pilgrimage to Palestine, and fetch a splinter of the holy cross, a good remedy for the toothach. No, quite different things are now in question! Behold this beautiful nosegay, varie­gated like a wood-pecker, odorifarous like Indian spice. Whom do you think I got it of.

Its indifferent to me.

Do but see, and smell.

My rose is finer and smells more delicious.

The withered rose? hah! hah! hah! you have not taken it from your bosom these ten days.

But I plucked it from the bush which Henry planted.

And what of that? you will soon sing another song. Hurrah! Miss, your bridegroom is arrived.

No, no, he does not come so soon.

He is even now in the armory, in conversation with your father. He sent me, meanwhile, with this nosegay.—give my love, he said, to the noble young lady, my charming bride. And then he slipped a piece of gold into my hand, the dear gentleman!—Your father sends you word to dress yourself in your best clothes.

My good mother, plague me not.

Plague you, indeed! poor child, ha! ha! ha! she is ashamed.

Is the knight here indeed?

Indeed he is; why should I cause you useless joy?

And is come, to take me for a wife?

What else for then?

No! never!

I don't know what to think of you. I am afraid the old witch down in the village has played her tricks with you. That wicked hag does great mischief among men and cattle. The magistrates should be more vigilant. Is it not a pity, how the poor child pines away. Her clothes become too wide. She used to hop along upon one leg, but now she can scarcely crawl upon two. For­merly she laughed at every thing; now she weeps for no­thing. But patience, she will laugh enough, when she sees this fine knight. He is grown thick and sat; a dark complexion, black wiskers, a fine dress, and feathers in his hat. All is alive below in the castle yard; there are pages and chamber maids, horses and mules, chests and trunks without number. Ah! what fine things and bridal ornaments must they contain. My mouth water at the [Page 58] thought of it!—Heaven has at last granted my prayers, I shall live to conduct my sweet young lady to her bridal chamber, and put on her nightcap.—But, you hear me not, what are you staring at through this window?

Do you see, dear Gertraud, Henry's hut below in the valley?—Alas, it is empty!

What do you care about the old rotten hut, think rather of Walter's stately castle.

A hut with Henry!—Ah! but a hut with Henry!

Pshaw! dear child, better is better! Love's easi­est death, ir the death of hunger.—But, what are you about? the bird will fly out.

So he shall.

Go and seek thy mate.

Strange girl! She has fed and nursed that little bird with the greatest care—and now the whim takes her—hush! they are coming.

In the name of God!

Where, where are you going to?—Yet, she is in the right! she has to put on her Sunday clothes. Bertha shall curl her hair. A gown with a long sweeping train—a hoop petticoat—a gold chain—and then no meat for Henry, though he were Emperor Henry, the bird catcher. (She waddles off.)

SCENE III.

If I only do not appear too old to the beautiful Elsbeth.

Too old? how mean you that?

I am passed the years, in which men sing love­songs to women, and dress themselves in their colours.

My Elsbeth has no colours. A blank shield without device.

I was but a youth, when by my bravery in bat­tle, I acquired the crowned Lyon for my device. Many [Page 59] a fine damsel would then have rejoiced, if I had exchang­ed the lion, crown and all, for a heart pierced by darts. But now—

Well? now? Are you not still a manly, active knight.

I don't know. My journey to the holy Sepul­chre has hurt my constitution, the Egyptian sun has brought wrinkles to my face. The Saracenes have lamed my arm, and the cut I received on my head has made me bald-headed.

All evidences of your valor, the finest ornaments of knighthood!

May be to a father! but the daughter is no Amazon.

Be unconcerned. Wait here a little, I'll send Elsbeth to you, and then in God's name divulge to her the matter yourself.

It must be true, what has been said by the old poets; that valor becomes speechless before beau­ty. It is easier to attack a horde of Arabs than to ad­dress a fine damsel.—But here she comes—what shall I say to her?—Before I sat out for the holy Sepulchre the little thing played with the plume in my helmet—and now—she plays with my heart—casts it away perhaps, like broken toys.—Good Cuno! a smooth chin is more agreeable to women than a bald head. If an arm is too weak to throw it around a neck, they care but little whe­ther it has been lamed by the cut of a Saracene—Wal­ter! Walter! be on your guard! you have escaped the fetters of the infidels; if you fall into the snares of love, the absolution will avail you nothing, which you have so dearly purchased.

SCENE IV.

Good day to you, valiant knight! My father sent me here.

And without your father's command you would not have come to meet me?

Why not? you are an old friend of our house.

An old friend is often more welcome than a new lover?

You must know that bet­ter than I.

So, so,—Do you know, my charming girl, that you are grown half a head taller, since I saw you last?

And you are grown older, Knight.

So, so, that sounds edifying, how shall I take up the thread of conversation?—

Yes, yes, time will even make an armour moulder. It is to me as if your charming cheerfulness had remained stick­ing in your children's shoes?

Ah! I was so happy in my childhood!

Will your future life be less so?

An old gipsy has foretold me many fine things, but I am afraid she has told me lies.

So, so—Tell me what the old one has pro­phesied to you?

She looked at my hand, love and pleasure, she said, every where, and the long line signifies: to the highest age.

Now, the love is found already.—

Yes, but the pleasure—

Is Love's slave, and serves him willingly. You know, charming miss, why I am here?

My father told it me.

I wish your heart had told it you.

My father wishes that too.

I am, 'tis true, forty already; I cannot gain your heart by youthful attraction; my love is not of glow­ing coals, but constant warmth; not of tinsel, but of stuff, woven with integrity and faith. I rave no more, know nothing of whim and humour, am to-morrow, like to-day, honest, without varnish. I cannot say more. Now tell me, what you think.

You are an honest man, I cannot deceive you.

Your pious eye speaks plain. You would not even deceive a rogue.

If you value your happiness and mine, do not take me for your wife.

Take? fy! you shall give yourself to me.

That I cannot.

I thought so!

My father will compel me.

He shall not.

Pardon me!

What have I done to incur your hatred?

I hate no one, and you least; I love all mankind, and you before many.

And yet—

I will go into a convent.

Don't do that; for as little as I may be worth, in my castle is yet better living than in a convent.

A vow binds me.

To whom have you vowed.

To the holy Agatha.

Look at me: Is that true?

No, it is not true.

A vow may bind you, but not to the holy Aga­tha. Am I right, Miss?

I entreat your compassion.

I don't know which of us is most in want of compassion. I would rather let you go to our Savior, than to a youth deserving of my envy.—With me it is all over! Farewel, my sweet dream! instead of a lovely wife, nobody will be about me but the castle priest; instead of the merry noise of my boys and girls, the hounds will howl in their kennel; good night, Wal­ter? if you had not been so foolish as to go in your youth­ful days on a pilgrimage to the holy sepulchre, you might have found a damsel, who one time would have strewed your grave with flowers. You have met with your desert! why did you go in quest of happiness to Pales­tine? it dwells in every place where there is love!

Good man! I wish to see you happy.

Yes, if it can be done without you, is it not so?

I hear my father; ah! he will be angry.

Had I but a child! even though it gave me cause of anger.

SCENE V.

Now? have you settled mat­ters?

Completely.

Has the girl been bashful.

Not at all.

That's well, Elsbeth. How do you like him.

Very well.

Are you contented?

If you are so.

Yes, yes, dear girl! I am as much rejoiced as if I had to go to my own wedding.

So you must.

I?

If you want to celebrate a wedding in this house.

How mean you that?—I guess—you intend at your own castle?—I shall not suffer that! I am not rich, but to my Elsbeth's day of honor I give my last ounce of silver.

You are mistaken.

Wherein?

She will not have me.

What! do you make jest of me?

Far from it.

Did you not say just now that all was settled?

That we shan't marry, is settled.

That she without bashfulness—

Has told me, that she could not love me.

And you—you cast down your eyes?

My father—

Is it true?

Do not be angry!

Naughty child! will there be every day such suitors? you are a poor girl, your smooth face is but a slender dowry. You also know that I cannot, lead you, dressed in silk and velvet, from one carousal to another, there to be stared and eyed at. You bloom here in ob­scurity; no one sees you, no one knows you; the num­ber of my friends is but small, for at my house there are [Page 63] no festivals. You ought to thank your patron saint for having sent to you un upright man, who does not despise our poverty.

No persuasion, knight. I love to see the hops voluntarily encircle the elm; but I do not like to see them tied to it.

Pooh! Pooh! a little constraint, and it soon be­comes natural.—Elsbeth! prepare yourself: On All Saint's Day your wedding with this worthy man, will take place.

Father, I cannot! Let me retire into a convent.

Into a convent? Are you serious?

Yes, father, the sooner! the better! there I'll pray for you.

What will your prayers avail me? Those who do not act piously, pray.—I am old and weak, have no other support, and no other pleasure, but you—and me you will desert?—As I stood weeping at your mother's death bed; and with groans exclaimed: Who will now nurse me in my old age! the angel once more opened her eyes, smilingly pointed to you—and expi­red.

Ah! my father!

I trusted to the promise of a dying wife. With consolation, I saw you grow up. Feeling my strength decline, I always said within myself, she will nurse me, she and my grand children; when attacked by the gout or lamed by the rheumatism, and unable to lift the spoon to my mouth, then she will feed me, she and my grand children.

Father! dear fa­ther!

When, on account of my fidelity to my liege Lord, the Count of Greyerz, the Emperor proscribed me; when the finest of my castles became destroyed and de­molished, and I saw my property go to ruin; then I thought: If God pleases, my Elsbeth will be spared to me! and if she finds a good and rich husband, I will live with her, she will not let me suffer in my old age.—Alas! poor old man! she goes to a convent and prays, to the saints to help her father, whom she does not like to assist [Page 64] herself.—Go! go! mother Gertraud will close my dy­ing eyes.

Father! you weep?

Knight, I'll be your wife!

I ought not to take advantage of this emotion; yet the sensibility, that leads you to my arms, is so pious and noble, that I draw from it sweet hopes for my future happiness. If such the daughter—how precious must be the wife!

She is my daughter!—A mother's blessing and a father's thanks will accompany her to her new abode. When God intends to reward good children, he makes them benefactors to their parents!

May your tears and the last smile of my mother always be before my eyes.

May I offer this ring to my graceful bride.—

Give it me, my son.

God bless you, and may your descendants flourish to the latest posterity!

What ails you?—Gertraud! Gertraud!

Don't call—have patience with me—it will soon be over—

Recover yourself—retire to your chamber—

Hah! the watchman on the steeple sounds the horn. We shall have guests at the wedding feast.

Not to-day, my father—only not to-day.—I am not able to receive your guests kindly.

Be tranquil, my lovely bride. You shall suffer no constraint.

I am not well—indeed I am not!—but I shall soon be better.

Ah, Henry!

I cannot rejoice in my good fortune.

Content yourself, and give the bride time only, to drop the character of the maiden.

SCENE VI.

An ambassador of the Count of Burgundy halts at the bridge, and desires to speak to you.

From the Count of Burgundy? what has he to do with me?—he has lost his way perhaps?

He enquired for Knight Cuno of Hallwyl.

And the name of the ambassador.

Is Count Hugo of Werdenberg.

Incomprehensible. Let down the drawbridge; assist him to dismount, and conduct him here. (Exit attendant.) They do not speak well of the Count of Burgundy. Is it not the same that killed his brother Al­brecht?

It is said, that he is dead.

It's all the same. Also with his son I'll have no concern.

I am well acquainted with the Ambassador. In our youthful days we broke many a lance together. An embassy in which Count Hugo of Werdenberg is con­cerned can be for no unworthy purpose.

SCENE VII.

Hail, noble Knight!

You are welcome!

I beg for a night's lodging.

As good as I can give.

Do I see right? Is not that Walter of Blonay?

'Tis he.

It's long since I saw you. How fare you?

The sun still shines into my garden.

Good luck to you.

Knight I have to deliver a message to you.

Speak in peace.—

Henry, Count of Burgundy, Lord of Arles, greets you, and requests your daughter, the noble Baro­ness Elsbeth of Hallwyl, as his spouse.

Knight not to mistrust your words, are you not mistaken?

Not at all.

Is your message indeed to Cuno of Hallwyl?

To Cuno of Hallwyl.

To the poor Cuno, whose property the Imperial proscription swallowed up? and who holds the last re­mains of his castles in fief of a monk?

To the same. Count Henry, my master, de­sires no other dowry than your daughter's heart.

Strange! by God! very strange! How can your Count have desire for a damsel, he never saw?

She is not strange to him, he often saw her.

Then he has been fluttering round her window with the swallows, for her foot never stepped beyond the limits of Hallwyl.

No matter, he knows and loves her.

I am sorry for it. Tell your master, that I think myself highly honored by his offer, yet my consent to his request is no more in my power, for my daughter is the bride of this worthy man.

You perplex me. Knight Blonay, you often gained of me the price of arms, yet I always remained your friend, but I envy you for the wreath of love.

I have only seen the buds, perhaps the blossoms will prosper with you better.

What do you mean by that? Do you doubt the honor of a knight?—Cuno of Hallwyl has never for­feited his word, and Elsbeth bears your ring upon her finger.

I expected that of you, noble knight, and thank you for it. But here is not the question, of what becomes you, or what pleases me?—I give you back your word; Elsbeth only can decide.

God knows, how I doat on the damsel! yet were [Page 67] she capable of deviating on this occasion, from the con­duct which I demand and expect of her; I would tear her from my heart!—Go, page, and call my daugh­ter.

Knight, do not take it amiss, you know the laws of honor. If I cannot fulfil your wish, you are notwithstanding heartily wel­come to my house.

I have not lost all hopes yet.

With permission, knight, how old is your lord?

Nineteen years,

Luck to them! Youth only plucks the roses of love.

Be resolute, they will yet blossom among your laurels.

SCENE VIII.

You have sent for me, father?

Come nearer. Here is Count Hugo of Wer­denberg.

He solicits your hand, in the name of his lord, the Count of Burgundy.

You jest, father.

It is earnest, Baroness. Permit me, to be the first, who pays his respects to the new Countess of Bur­gundy, as my future sovereign.

Knight, you think me to be a child. Who is this Count of Burgundy? Do I know him? Have I ever heard of him?

He loves you with warmth and honesty.

How can he love me? has he seen me in a dream?

If you do not trust my words, accept these jew­els, as a token of their truth. The Countess, Matilda, his mother, sends them to her beloved daughter-in-law.

Do you delight in my perplexity? Can my good father make jest of me?

Not at all! The proposal is serious, for with Hallwyl's daughter no one shall dare to sport. What I in duty had to say, I have said already; it is your turn, speak, the language of your heart.

Ah father! you know, my heart is attached to one alone!—and that only one is lost to me!—Good Henry! If I am not to possess you, a throne has no at­traction for me!—For your sake, father, I have given my word to this man, and I will keep it.

Knight, tell your master, that Elsbeth of Hallwyl is betrothed.

Do not tell him so, knight! he would die with grief!

Henry.

What was that?

My part is done. Count Henry, you must speak for yourself.

Away with the princely crown! Here I lay it down at Elsbeth's feet. She loved the poor Henry, and the poor Henry she shall again recognize, when she opens her lovely eyes.

I feel strange? Is not this Henry? the old her­mit's son.

The son of Count Albrecht of Burgundy, whose uncle slayed his father, and eighteen years withheld from him his parental inheritance.

Henry is it you?

Remember your vow, by the holy Agatha!

My Henry!

You have refused my mother's jewels; behold the floweret lies within it which you gave me at our part­ing.

Have I been dead? and now awake in heaven?

Miracles! Where is brother Peter?

He has methamorphosed himself into the knight Hans of Bonstetten.

Father! For the love of God!—I cannot become this man's wife.

God forbid, that I should separate such a pair! [Page 69] remain my friend, noble Miss, wear my ring as a remem­brance of a faithful friend.

Take all my treasures! this one only leave to me!

Its love that gives it you.

It is the finger of God!

Your blessing, father!

Take it with these tears of joy!

Long live the young Countess of Bur­gundy!!!