wall.--The denouement of this tragi-comedy you may leave to me!
HERMANN. That, I suppose, will be, "Long live our new baron, Francis von Moor!"
FRANCIS (patting his cheeks). How cunning you are! -- By this means, you see, we attain all our aims at once and quickly. Amelia relinquishes all hope of him,--the old man reproaches himself for the death of his son, and -- he sickens --a tottering edifice needs no earthquake to bring it down -- he will not survive the intelligence -- then am I his only son--Amelia loses every support, and becomes the plaything of my will, and you may easily guess--in short all will go as we wish--but you must not flinch from your word.
HERMANN. What do you say? (Exultingly.) Sooner shall the ball turn back in its course, and bury itself in the entrails of the marksman.--Depend upon me! Only let me to the work.--Adieu!
FRANCIS (calling after him). The harvest is thine, dear Hermann!--(Alone.) When the ox has drawn the corn into the barn, he must put up with hay. A dairy-maid for thee, and no Amelia!
OLD MOOR asleep in an arm-chair; AMELIA.
AMELIA (approaching him on tip-toe). Softly! Softly! he slumbers. (She places herself before him.) How beautiful! how venerable!--venerable as the picture of a saint.--No, I cannot be angry with thee, thou head with the silver locks; I cannot be angry with thee! Slumber on gently, wake up cheerfully--I alone will be the sufferer.
OLD M. (dreaming.). My son! my son! my son!
AMELIA (seizes his hand). Hark! hark! his son is in his dreams.
OLD M. Are you there? Are you really there.? Alas! how miserable you seem! Fix not on me that mournful look! I am wretched enough.
AMELIA (wakens him abruptly). Look up, dear old man! 'Twas but a dream. Collect yourself!
OLD M. (half awake). Was he not here? Did I not press his hands? Cruel Francis! wilt thou tear him even from my dreams?