SCENE I.—Franconia.     

       Apartment in the Castle of COUNT MOOR.     

       FRANCIS, OLD MOOR.     

       FRANCIS. But are you really well, father? You look so pale.     

       OLD MOOR. Quite well, my son—what have you to tell me?     

       FRANCIS. The post is arrived—a letter from our correspondent at Leipsic.     

       OLD M. (eagerly). Any tidings of my son Charles?     

       FRANCIS. Hem! Hem!—Why, yes. But I fear—I know not—whether I dare —your health.—Are you really quite well, father?     

       OLD M. As a fish in water.* Does he write of my son? What means this anxiety about my health? You have asked me that question twice.     

    [*This is equivalent to our English saying "As sound as a roach."] 

       FRANCIS. If you are unwell—or are the least apprehensive of being so—       permit me to defer—I will speak to you at a fitter season.—(Half aside.) These are no tidings for a feeble frame.     

       OLD M. Gracious Heavens? what am I doomed to hear?     

       FRANCIS. First let me retire and shed a tear of compassion for my lost brother. Would that my lips might be forever sealed—for he is your son! Would that I could throw an eternal veil over his shame—for he is my brother! But to obey you is my first, though painful, duty—forgive me, therefore.     

       OLD M. Oh, Charles! Charles! Didst thou but know what thorns thou plantest in thy father's bosom! That one gladdening report of thee would add ten years to my life! yes, bring back my youth! whilst now, alas, each fresh intelligence but hurries me a step nearer to the grave!     

       FRANCIS. Is it so, old man, then farewell! for even this very day we might all have to tear our hair over your coffin.*     

    [* This idiom is very common in Germany, and is used to express affliction.] 

       OLD M. Stay! There 

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