CHARLES VON M. (rushes towards him). Brother, brother! the letter, the letter!     

       SCHW. (gives him a letter, which he opens hastily). What's the matter? You have grown as pale as a whitewashed wall!     

       CHARLES VON M. My brother's hand!     

       SCHW. What the deuce is Spiegelberg about there?     

       GRIMM. The fellow's mad. He jumps about as if he had St. Vitus' dance.     

       SCHUF. His wits are gone a wool gathering! He's making verses, I'll be sworn!     

       RAZ. Spiegelberg! Ho! Spiegelberg! The brute does not hear.     

       GRIMM. (shakes him). Hallo! fellow! are you dreaming? or—     

       SPIEGEL. (who has all this time been making gestures in a corner of the room, as if working out some great project, jumps up wildly). Your money or your life! (He catches SCHWEITZER by the throat, who very coolly flings him against the wall; Moor drops the letter and rushes out. A general       sensation.)     

       ROLLER. (calling after him). Moor! where are you going? What's the matter?     

       GRIMM. What ails him? What has he been doing? He is as pale as death.     

       SCHW. He must have got strange news. Just let us see!     

       ROLLER. (picks up the letter from the ground, and reads). "Unfortunate brother!"—a pleasant beginning—"I have only briefly to inform you that you have nothing more to hope for. You may go, your father directs me to tell you, wherever your own vicious propensities lead. Nor are you to entertain, he says, any hope of ever gaining pardon by weeping at his feet, unless you are prepared to fare upon bread and water in the lowest dungeon of his castle until your hair shall outgrow eagles'       feathers, and your nails the talons of a vulture. These are his very words. He commands me to close the letter. Farewell forever! I pity you.     

                          "FRANCIS VON MOOR" 

       SCHW. A most amiable and loving brother, in good truth! And the scoundrel's name is Francis.     

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