Brackenburg. I entreat you, excuse me, Clara. Clara. What ails you? Why refuse me this trifling service? Brackenburg. When I hold the yarn, I stand as it were spell-bound before you, and cannot escape your eyes. Clara. Nonsense! Come and hold! Mother (knitting in her arm-chair). Give us a song! You used to be merry once, and I had always something to laugh at. Brackenburg. Once! Clara. Well, let us sing. Brackenburg. As you please. Clara. Merrily, then, and sing away! 'Tis a soldier's song, my favourite. (She winds yarn, and sings with Brackenburg.) The drum is resounding, And shrill the fife plays; My love, for the battle, His brave troop arrays; He lifts his lance high, And the people he sways. My blood it is boiling! My heart throbs pit-pat! Oh, had I a jacket, With hose and with hat! How boldly I'd follow, And march through the gate; Through all the wide province I'd follow him straight. The foe yield, we capture Or shoot them! Ah, me! What heart-thrilling rapture A soldier to be! (During the song, Brackenburg has frequently looked at Clara; at length his voice falters, his eyes fill with tears, he lets the skein fall, and goes to the window. Clara finishes the song alone, her Mother motions to her, half displeased, she rises, advances a few steps towards him, turns back, as if irresolute, and again sits down.) Mother. What is going on in the street, Brackenburg? I hear soldiers marching. Brackenburg. It is the Regent's body-guard. Clara. At this hour? What can it mean? (She rises and joins Brackenburg at the window.) That is not the