SCENE I.

Owls in the dark.

Huſh! liſten! ſome one whiſpers near.

A bat; I felt him bruſh my ear.

Onward, onward—prithee, faſter—

Draw your rapier, noble maſter!

What! when nothing's here to fight?

Whither will this foreſt lead?

Maſter, take heed!

All is ruin'd here, and bare.

Maſter beware!

Something touches at my head—

Oh, lud! we're dead.

What's yonder?

Oh, comfort! a man with a light.

How ſay'ſt thou, Tachſtein, is not the night piercing cold?

Aye, marry is it—Where is our Captain?

Studying his occupations yonder.

What, in the alehouſe?

Alehouſe or inn—the village affords no better. Drinking is every where the nobleſt employment of a ſoldier; for what makes a brave ſoldier? contempt of danger. And what inſpires contempt of danger? Why, drinking.

I do not much value the bravery of a man in his cups.

Hold thy peace, Tachſtein, thou art ig⯑norant; thou abuſeſt ſpeech, when thou ſay'ſt a man is in his cups, forſooth, as tho' the wine ſwallowed the man, and not the man the wine. Never ſay a man is in liquor; 'tis a fooliſh phraſe; he is not in the liquor, but the liquor in him. Were ſome men in the liquor they drink, God help us!—they might be drown'd.

If the man be not drown'd in liquor, his underſtanding is.

Nay, how can wine drown the under⯑ſtanding, [4]when, it is notorious that wine makes the brain ſwim? I ſay thou art ignorant. But come along, for we may have perilous ſervice to perform to night.

SCENE II.

Loſt your way, you ſay, in returning to Prague, and your horſes unable to proceed! Hem! the ſnow falls apace, and the night is far advanced:

You look like an honeſt man

and you

hem?—

I anſwer for him.

Aye? why, then I believe, in ſpite of the ſavage cuſtoms of the houſe, I muſt give you ſhelter.

what did you ſay, Sir? the ſavage—

We have traverſed much ground in this caſtle, it muſt be of immenſe ſize.

It was, but one half of it is tumbled down.

Aye, but the half that remains—

Promiſes every hour to follow the other half.

Pray Sir, what may this place be?

It was formerly an old convent, but long ſince deſerted. There is nothing here now but long galleries, huge halls, dreadful ſubterra⯑neous vaults, and—

Oh lord! what?

You don't mind a ghoſt or two, do you?

Ghoſts?

Aye, we have them here by dozens; I believe I ſaw one or two here the other night my ſelf.

pray how long have you lived here?

To reckon by the almanack, one year— to reckon by my feelings—ten.

You are probably the—

Gardener I was hired to be, but there being no longer any garden, I was placed within doors to direct the ceremonies of the houſe; but when no ceremony was obſerved here, I was made Steward to take care of the houſehold fur⯑niture; but there being little or no furniture, I was made Clerk to inſpect the accoutns; but as there were no accounts to be kept, they made me Bailiff to collect the rents; but as there were no rents to collect—

What did you do then?

Then I came down to be Door-porter; but as no one ever comes to the door—

What is your preſent employment?

Making love. I find that makes the time paſs rather quicker.

Love in this place?

Juſt the place for it, and, to ſay the truth, it is my way in all places.

You ſeem to have a merry heart. Pray will you introduce my maſter to the lord of this caſtle?

Impoſſible.

Juſt to ſpeak with him.—

He never ſpeaks to any body; he has ſpoken to me only once ſince he came here, and that is a week ago.

Who is he, pray?

I never heard.

Where does he come from?

He never diſcloſed.

What's his condition?

That's a ſecret—

What name does he go by?

"Your Honour," to his face, and be⯑hind his back "the Bear"

Sir—Sir—

What does he do in this lonely place?

Frets, and ſighs, ſtalks to and fro, and [8]talks to himſelf. I ſhould be diſcharged if he did but hear that I had let a ſtranger in at the caſ⯑tle gate.

If it had been poſſible to find ſhelter any where elſe, you ſhould not have run that riſk.

Did not you ſee the little inn in the foreſt?

An inn!

That wretched hovel, Sir, where we attempted to procure a lodging among thoſe armed men; but

it was crammed full of ſuch ill looking—

Oh you muſt not truſt to looks here-abouts, the beſt looking here are the worſt at heart.

Indeed! to my mind you are the beſt looking man we have ſeen to night: If you ſhould turn out—

Huſh! huſh!

Ha! Liebſtoff? well! is my maſter come in?

yes.

And where is he?

Gone to the grated chamber.

Did he ſpeak, when he came in?

Yes—

Ah! what did he ſay?

Get out. What are you doing here? Begone!

Did he ſay all that to you? He muſt be in a remarkable ſweet temper to be ſo converſa⯑ble. Alone, I ſuppoſe, as uſual?

No he brought a child in with him.

A child!

He is going to eat him, I ſuppoſe

Pſha! a ſtout man in a black maſk led him hither,

and I heard him ſay to my maſter—Yes, my lord, he is on the road to Prague, —on which my lord—

Knock'd him down, I conclude.

Peace! my lord ſmiled.

Smiled? ſomething ſtrange is going to happen.

You wait here for him, do you?

I'm ready whenever the great gong ſtrikes, as uſual.

Who are theſe men?

They are two of my couſins, come to my wedding.

Well thought of; the wedding is to be to morrow, is not it? You are welcome, gentle⯑men: i'll juſt carry my maſter his poniard and piſ⯑tols [10]and then for a dance! Kourakin, we'll be mortal merry.

Pray who is that mortal merry gentle⯑man?

That is the upper footman.

A pretty figure for his place! and pray is that the livery of the caſtle?

Why, as beauty's no recommendation here, and your rueful viſages are moſt in requeſt, their clothes are made to ſet them off to advan⯑tage, as you ſee.

Yes, I perceive it.

If my maſter ſhould chance to ſpy you, don't forget that you are my couſins, and to mor⯑row at break of day,—Huſh! I thought I heard— No it is only my little bride Moolina coming this way. You'll ſee what a nice, pretty, little—

Moola, I have ſomething particular to ſay to you. You muſt know that—

So; he is the running Footman, I ſup⯑poſe. What is the meaning of that noiſe?—

Tis the gong. I'll tell you what it means.

What! ſilence the women?

There is conjuring in it.

Or to murder the gueſts!

Hark! hark! there's good tidings;

Pray what may they be?

His ſupper's now ready, and after ſup we.

For the laſt time in this world!

How pleaſant we'll be!

Hark!—good b'ye.

Whither now?

I muſt go, no delaying—

Nay, a moment—

I dare not—

Go on, you were ſaying—

Pray, Sir, give me leave to aſk you a queſtion.

What is it, Mouſic?

Don't you think this is a horrible ugly place?

Yes truely, ugly enough.

A deviliſh cut-throat place?

Certainly it has the air of one.

Upon my word you're very comforting, Sir; what do you propoſe to do till day break?

Read, to divert my thoughts. let me ſee that book.

Oh lord! they mean to prepare us for it: yes, yes, we ſhall be puniſhed now for all your mad pranks, for your running away with that beautiful lady, whoſe liſe you ſaved from the rob⯑bers, [13] [...] thought you was carrying her [...] Do you forget that, Sir?

Would I could forget it!

B [...]des that, you have murder on your head.

Murder?

Yes, did not you ſhoot one of the ruf⯑fians?

No, you killed him, Mouſic.

Oh lord! lord! It muſt have been a very random ſhot, for you know as well as I, that I run away as faſt as my legs could carry me.

And is this all my crime?

No no, there's worſe than that, did not the poor lady tell you ſhe was married (though in private and bound not to diſcloſe her huſband's name), and did not you nevertheleſs conſine her for ſeveral days in your houſe, till you found you could not prevail on her to be be your miſtreſs?

And then did not I carry her back to Prague, Sirrah?

Where you ſet her adrift without know⯑ing whither ſhe was going.

Thoſe were terms of her own making, to which I acceded on condition of her never re⯑vealing to any mortal what had paſs'd.

Aye, I remember you made her take a terrible ſolemn oath about it. That was a [14]proof there was no good in what you had done, or you would not have been ſo afraid of owning it.

My vanity was mortified at her reſiſt⯑ance, and ſuggeſted to me that method of con⯑cealing a folly, which now cauſes the remorſe of my life.

Oh! does it ſo? then this is the mo⯑ment for repentance; for my part it has quite re⯑formed me. I'll never ſpeak to a woman again as long as I live. Oh lord!—what did I ſee there? ſomething all in white.—

Why, 'tis Moolina coming back to us.

Aye! I thought 'twas a ghoſt at leaſt, a nice, little, lively—eh! hiſt! Moolina! Moolina!

What! you won't ſpeak to a woman! you are reformed!

To a ſtrange woman, I mean, Sir. I have ſeen Moolina, you know, before; beſides, in good reſolutions one ſhould not be too haſty.

Kourakin has ſent me to you, to beg that you will not grow impatient: he'll come back to you preſently.

Don't let him trouble himſelf about that, pretty Moolina. If you will ſtay with us, we don't want Kourakin to come back at all. So [15]you're going to be married to him, are you, pretty Moolina?

Oh dear! the wedding was to have been a week ago, but my maſter came home unex⯑pectedly, and we were forced to ſtay till he gave conſent.

Your maſter!—a nice little bride, is not ſhe, Sir? and what did your maſter ſay?

Say! ha! ha! ha! he never ſays any thing; he only made a ſign.

What; do you never get a word from him?

Never; its always either

or

or

And ſo, which of all theſe ſigns did he make to you about your wedding?

Oh that happy dog Kourakin! But are not you afraid, Moolina, to venture on a maſter for life?

So I tell the men, but I have no deſign to be taken at my word—

Get away, get away! my maſter has made ſigns that he's coming. What ſhall we do with our ſtrangers? we muſt hide them. Stand you before them, Moolina, oh! I wiſh you were a little taller; there! there! huſh! huſh! that way!

What, the devil! is he coming to ſettle [17]here? if he ſees me, and orders me out, we are all diſcover'd.

No, I cannot bear to look upon a name ſo fatal to my repoſe

Eugenia! the conflict overpowers me!

If that is the longeſt ſpeech he ever makes, I don't wonder you cannot tell us any more about him.

Well! and where is he going now?

It is believ'd he goes into the apartment of a young woman confined in this caſtle, whom nobody ever ſaw, and who died in conſequence of ill treatment from a certain ſteward.

And what is become of that ſteward?

He alſo died about a week ago, and that is the reaſon my maſter came hither.

Does every body die then, that comes into the caſtle?

Generally ſpeaking?

Have you never had the curioſity to fol⯑low him?

No; he makes uſe of a trifling precau⯑tion to prevent me.

What's that?

A brace of loaded piſtols, which he car⯑ries about him to anſwer impertinent questions.

Come, away! Where are you going to carry the gentlemen, Kourakin?

There is no other hiding place than that little paſſage under the ſtair caſe, level with the court yard.

Aye in the court yard, I ſuppoſe.

Why, I confeſs 'tis not much out of it, but it will keep you in a dry ſkin, and I will come and fetch you as ſoon as our little dance begins

Away! away!

He has not ſeen us, and—

He is a madman, Sir, don't expoſe your life. If he ſees you, 'tis not your being my couſins can keep you here. There

go down thoſe ſteps—a little lower—that's right.

Will then my boſom ſtill pant, when I approach this place! underneath this ſpot breathes the wretched Eugenia—myſelf only conſcious of the ſe⯑cret. Guilty, yet moſt adored of women, how il! haſt thou repaid my affection! from thy lowly ſtation I lifted thee to my own, I loved thee with tenderneſs unequalled, unabating. Could'ſt thou be faithleſs to me!

Yet do I pity thee, unhappy victim! ſhut from the light of heaven! dead to thy friends, to every joy of life! and yet living! Alas! thou little think'ſt thy wretched huſbands is now ſo near thee, or how gladly, even at the price of his own blood, he would purchaſe the belief of thy innocence! I ſhud⯑der to open this ſecret entrance, by my contrivance concealed from every eye

Barbarian that I am! have I doomed her to this horrid dungeon! Yes; 'twas my voice pronounced the cruel ſentence:

'Twas to offended honor that I ſacrificed her. No, I'll not go down, leſt, ſoſten'd by the fight of her miſery, my heart betray me to a weakneſs.

That voice diſarms me. Shall I then ven⯑ture to look on her? no! let me not forget that ſhe refuſes to ſpeak the name of him who bore her from my cowardly ſervants in triumph, who de⯑tained her thee long weeks, and extorted from her, as ſhe ſays, an oath never to reveal his name. She loves him—Hell is in that thought; ſhe ſhall ſpeak his name or never more behold the light. At midnight her ſon ſhall deſcend with me. If that fail, I muſt ſeek a new guardian of this dun⯑geon. I am inclined to truſt Kourakin, but I muſt be wary.

Who preſumes to knock

who knocks?

'Tis me, Sir, ſaving your preſnce, and with all poſſible ſubmiſſion, and not deſiring to come in if your Honor does not pleaſe to chooſe it.

come in—

What the devil can he be doing here ſo long? Surely this cannot be the room that—

Kourakin.

you honour!

No! I'll firſt make proof of her affection [21]to her child

I aſk pardon, your honour, I have a ſlight favour to beg of your honour.

What is it?

Your honour knows, I am to be married to morrow.

What then?

You were ſo good to give Moolina and me leave to keep our wedding in the caſtle.

Well!

Well, your honor, and ſo I came to tell you that this hall being the moſt diſtant from your apartment, we had made choice of it for our little hop, that we might not diſturb you.

This hall!

Why, as your honour knows, the caſtle is not in the beſt repair all over. This room ſeems the moſt ſecure, and the beſt for our hop, becauſe they ſay there are vaults under it. Is it true, Sir?

So, Sir, with your leave, it ſhall be here.

Won't my maſter be pleaſed to honor with his preſence the hap⯑pieſt day of Kourakin's life? I am ſure your ho⯑nor has a good heart at bottom; I know, though you ſeem ſo ſtern, you do not mean to be ill-na⯑tured [22]to any one, and if, to divert your melan⯑choly, you were to take a pretty little wife too, ſuch an one as—

a wife!

Such an one as I could recommend, your honour, might be as happy as I am—

Happy! oh!

well ſaid, Bear! What an incomprehenſible animal it is! the firſt civil word he hears, he takes fright and runs away.

Well, Moolina, I have obtained by maſ⯑ter's leave for a dance, but it muſt not be here. Oh; if you had ſeen his face when I mentioned it!

ſo we will now return to our friends, and be as merry as merry hearts can make us.

When you and I, love, married are, &c.

When you and I, love, &c.

SCENE I.

To ſleep, is impoſſible in the place they aſſign'd us.

Oh!—ſuch a wind! ſuch beds! and thoſe curſed doors at my back and ſhoulders!

Look if there be not ſome way out at the end of the gallery.

No, Sir, there is none.

How do you know? go and ſee—Why don't you go?

Dear Sir, you don't conſider; I—

Do as I order you.

Don't preſs me ſo much, pray don't; If any harm ſhould befal you, while I am gone, I never could forgive myſelf.

Shall we ſtay here then?

Yes, let us ſtay here.

Fetch me that arm chair.

A—an—arm chair;

. I don't ſee any, Sir.

There, down yonder—

If you would but be ſo good, Sir, juſt to ſhew it me.

I perceive I muſt fetch it myſelf;

. I ſhall ſeat my⯑ſelf here, and try to ſleep.

And I, here,

Silence then—

I'll be as ſtill as a mouſe.

Sir! Sir! I am certain of it; I heard it.—

What an inſufferable coward!

Heard, what?

There, below, a great way off. It is one, Sir; it is a ghoſt, an apparition! The ſtew⯑ard or the young lady!—Don't you ſee a dark lanthorn, and a man with two piſtols? they are coming to murder us!

My ſword! quick; fetch it.

I ſhall never be able to find it. I ſee two men now coming with two dark—

Pſha! fool! It is Kourakin.

My fear makes me ſee double—Don't they—I mean, does not be beckon to us?

To you I think he beckons—he has per⯑haps a better bed to ſhew us.

Then, if you pleaſe, I'll go to him.

Do ſo—but be ſure you are ready for de⯑parture in the morning.

Oh, never fear—the thoughts of ghoſts will keep me on the watch.

Kourakin will be happy with the object of his wiſhes!—a bleſſing, to which my heart muſt be a ſtranger.

SCENE II.

Where are we going, Father?

Are you frighten'd?

I ſhould be, if I was not with you— but I am not afraid now, becauſe I know you are here too.

Your courage pleaſes me—but you muſt be ſomething more than brave—

What muſt I be, Father?

Diſcreet beyond thy years.

I'll do all I can to pleaſe you.

And ſecret as the grave.—I muſt diſcloſe to you a circumſtance, on which a father's happi⯑neſs, nay, a father's life depends.

And did you think I would ever tell that again, Pappa?—Oh fie!

The boy reproves me—You are very young—

Not too young to love you dearly—

Go down thoſe ſteps, and bring me a baſket which you will find there.—

How! the baſket of yeſterday's proviſions un⯑touch'd!

Hapleſs woman! can ſhe deſign to terminate life by theſe means! the idea chills my blood—If I thought a ray of hope might con⯑tribute to—

Oh Father, What do you think I have ſeen?

Speak—quickly—

A poor woman, down in that dark place—

Boy, it is thy mother.

My mother! you told me ſome time ago that ſhe was dead—

To the world perhaps ſhe is.

Will you kill her then?

Kill her! She is the very idol of my ſoul. Did ſhe perceive thee juſt now?

No, I am ſure, not—for ſhe was faſt aſleep on the ground.

Aſleep! aſleep!

It muſt be as I ſuſpect—Her blood lie on my head!

What did you ſay, Fa⯑ther?

Begone—here—remain here till I come to you—

If ſhe be dead, I will have no witneſs of the fatal end of my ſeverity—

Eugenia!

[31]Eugenia!—

Eugenia!

Who calls Eugenia?

She lives! Aſcend.

Korowitz!—I had loſt the hope ever to look on you again. Comes my huſband hither as my deliverer or my judge?

Perhaps as both—if you are prepared to confeſs your crime—

Theſe caverns are the witneſs of my ſuſ⯑fering—Heaven of my innocence.

Thy innocence! Thou art reſolved then—to the ſafety of a paramour thou wilt ſacri⯑fice thy huſband and thy ſon—

My ſon!

Since I have been buried here, I have never heard him named by any voice but mine—Oh tell me, Koro⯑witz, for pity tell me if he lives and proſpers—

He lives and weeps for thee—When I firſt brought thee hither, I cauſed a report to be ſpread of thy death—

And ſhall I never ſee my boy again! Cruel Korowitz! Haſt thou ſeparated us for ever!

Hear me, Eugenia! this is the laſt hour— mark me, the laſt—which muſt irrevocably decide [32]my will: If thou wouldſt wiſh to ſee thy ſon again—

Oh ſpare me! If thou bid me hope to ſee my boy again, be careful thou doſt not de⯑ceive me!

I do not deceive thee, but remember the confeſſion, which muſt, if you wiſh me to bring him to thee.——

Bring him to me—If I wiſh it!—Oh, canſt thou aſk that queſtion of a mother?

Beware, Eugenia! Remember the con⯑ditions.

Let me look upon my ſon!

This is to promiſe compliance.

My boy! my boy! my long loſt boy!

Eugenia!

I underſtand you—Yet, ere I looſe the bond of an oath regiſtered in heaven, pledge me thy word, that my confeſſion ſhall not involve—

I make no terms—confeſs inſtantly, or you loſe your ſon again—

Whoſe voice was that?

Sir, Sir,—here are armed men at the gate.

Withdraw, or death awaits thee.—

At thy peril raiſe thy voice—

They have orders from the Em⯑peror, and inſiſt on admittance—

Arm all my people—I come—Eugenia, return to the cavern—Iwan follow me.

We will not part a ſecond time.

'Twill be for ever.

Oh, let me go! I will ſtay with my mother.

My lord! my lord! open the door—

Be it ſo then.

go down with her—

— but tremble, leſt this grate ſhould never open on ye more.

Korowitz! my honour'd uncle! is it thus we meet again!

Canzemar! What is this diſturbance? how came you into this caſtle?

Travelling to—but this is no time for ex⯑planation— you are accuſed of crimes—there are orders for your arreſt—if you are guilty, ſly in⯑ſtantly—

If you are innocent, appear and vindicate your⯑ſelf.—

Vindicate myſelf!

They talk of ſome ſecret marriage—a lady of the name of Eugenia—

Go on—of what am I accuſed?

Her ſudden death is imputed to you— within theſe few days her child too is miſſing— her family have brought their accuſation before the Emperor, who commands you immediately to appear—Come to Prague—three days will ſuf⯑fice—

Three days! and no creature—miſerable, hopeleſs ſufferers! Canzemar, obſerve me well: 'tis in your power to render me the moſt ſignal ſervice.

Command me in what you pleaſe, but quickly—the Emperor's officers—

True;—know then, that, in a Souter⯑rain of this Caſtle, I devote to my juſt reſentment a victim—

A victim! can it be ſhe, who—

Make no enquiries: accept the ſacred truſt; let food,—conveyed by none but yourſelf, be conſtantly ſupplied, ſufficient to ſupport an unhappy woman, and a ſtill more helpleſs be⯑ing, dear to my heart—underneath this hall—an iron grating—Heavens! they come!

Order! Arms!

Behold him!

Hence with us away!

I yield!

He yields, and all obey.

Yet grant a few moments! Oh, grant to

my pray'r, At parting, one friendly farewell!

Now ſpeak, what your pleaſure—

to yield we prepare;

Your purpoſe theſe moments may tell.

Away with this triſting! our orders are clear:

Yet ſpeak!

Come away! we are loiterers here.

Away! this inſtant! hence, away!

SCENE III.

Come, comrade—now we have taken a ſober glaſs together, we'll go back to my bride—a pretty, elegant—genteel girl—juſt— juſt—

Juſt fit for you—

That's the very thing I was juſt going to ſay—here—do you take the candle, and I'll take your arm

and ſhow you the way.

Kourakin, do you think this road ſafe?

Safe! what the devil ails it? is it not the road from the cellar to the hall? I warrant me, I travel to the cellar often enough in the day to judge whether the road be ſafe or not—

Aye, but—look up at that roof—

Why, what is the matter with the roof?

It rocks ſo—backward and forward—

Poh,—pho!—rocks indeed! faith, I think it does rock a little—but you ſaid it rocks back⯑ward and forward—now I think it rocks ſideways.

You know you told us this evening that the other half was tumbling.—

oh lord! there is ſome of it dropt now at my foot.

Ha! ha! why, Mouſic—in ſober ſad⯑neſs, I believe you have a drop in your head— that's the bottle, fool—it's a mercy you did not break it and ſpill the liquor.

No fear of that—we ſaw the liquor clear out, before we left the cellar—

Kourakin!

What's the matter?

The candle's gone out—if there ſhould be robbers here! I'm horribly afraid—

Never mind the robbers—the only thing I am afraid of, is—that you are tipſy.

No ſuch thing—I'm as ſo⯑ber as you are—hey day! what's all this?

What are you doing here, Sirrah!

Sir—I—honeſt Kourakin and I—

Are both drunk, I ſee.

No Sir, only a little overcome with fear, that's all.

Anſwer me, Kourakin; what knowledge have you of vaults under theſe apartments, where a woman and child are inhumanly buried?

A woman and child buried!—I know of only one vault under theſe rooms, and there's neither woman or child buried in that.—to be ſure, Mouſic and I have juſt left a few dead men there—

How!

All — all natural ſubjects of Bo⯑hemia.

Blockhead!—we'll dig up the whole caſtle rather than forego our ſearch.

With all my heart—the ſooner it tum⯑bles the better—only keep clear of the wine-cel⯑lar—don't let the air in there to ſpoil the wine.

Follow us, ſirrah!

Come—come, Mouſic—we'll follow to⯑gether, and you ſhall go firſt—I don't know how it is to-day—every thing in my head goes round like a catharine-wheel.

SCENE IV.

This way alone remained—I have eſcaped my guards, and will return to pre⯑ſerve the life of Eugenia.

Yonder they come—they track me—if they ſeize me once again—

SCENE the laſt.

The laſt threat of Korowitz will be accompliſh'd—the accuſtom'd hour is paſt, and no one opens the dungeon to convey my ſcanty food— [41]

ſurely thoſe were diſtant voices—

—my exhauſted ſtrength prevented me from calling for aid—I hear them no more—

Heaven will not abandon that little innocent—he was not reſtored to me only to die in my arms.—

Do you never ſee the day light here?

Never—

But I don't wiſh to ſee it without you— you ſaid they ſometimes brought you food at theſe ſteps—

None has been brought to-night.

didſt thou complain my child?

No, mother— Iam very well—quite well—indeed—

Thou flattereſt me—thy icy hands— deareſt child, the want of air, of nouriſhment—

You do not ſuſ⯑fer leſs than I do: why ſhould I not be as patient as you are?

I am inured to the dampneſs of this cavern, but thy tender age—

Oh heaven!

I am ſtrong enough yet—I can yet—

He faints! and no help! my ſon! Iwan!

—

he claſps my hand—oh no, he is dying!—I now feel I am a mother, and repent.

what glimmering light is that? nothing ſo bright has ever viſited theſe caves—

My child! look up! they are coming hither to preſerve us—you ſhall not die—here is food—

all, all is over—

the light extinguiſhed too!—Koro⯑witz—Help! Help!—alas no help is near—no hope remains—embrace me, my ſweet child! preſs me in thy arms—we will die thus together—

Eugenia!

Eugenia!

Eugenia!

Here!

Away—Away! tho' guilty, her life ſhall be preſerv'd—

Heavens! what do I ſee!

The innocent victim of thy ſeverity. In me behold the unhappy cauſe of thy ſuſpicions—

The ſecrecy of thy union may beſt plead in excuſe of my offence—thy wife was ſpotleſs as the ſnow of heaven! but ſee! ſhe revives!

Eugenia! look up, thou injur'd ſufferer!

My huſband!