LOUISA (drawing back). Man! What is brooding in thy artful brain?     

       WORM. Be seated. Here are paper, pens, and ink. Write what I dictate.     

       LOUISA (sitting down in the greatest uneasiness). What must I write? To whom must I write?     

       WORM. To your father's executioner.     

       LOUISA. Ah! How well thou knowest to torture souls to thy purpose. (Takes a pen.)     

       WORM (dictating to her). "My dear Sir (LOUISA writes with a trembling hand,) three days, three insupportable days, have already passed—already passed—since last we met."     

       LOUISA (starts, and lays down her pen). To whom is the letter?     

       WORM. To your father's executioner.     

       LOUISA. Oh! my God!     

       WORM. "But for this you must blame the major—the major—who watches me all day with the vigilance of an Argus."     

       LOUISA (starting up). Villany! Villany beyond all precedent! To whom is the letter?     

       WORM. To your father's executioner.     

       LOUISA (paces to and fro, wringing her hands). No, no, no! This is tyrannical! Oh Heaven! If mortals provoke thee, punish them like mortals; but wherefore must I be placed between two precipices? Wherefore am I hurled by turns from death to infamy, from infamy to death? Wherefore is my neck made the footstool of this blood-sucking fiend? No; do what thou wilt, I will never write that!     

       WORM (seizing his hat). As you please, miss! It rests entirely on your own pleasure!     

       LOUISA. Pleasure, say'st thou? On my own pleasure? Go, barbarian! Suspend some unfortunate over the pit of hell; then make your demands, and ask your victim if it be his pleasure to grant your request! Oh! Thou knowest but too well that the bonds of nature bind our hearts as firmly as chains! But all is now alike indifferent. Dictate! I cease to think! Artifices of hell, I yield to ye! (She resumes her seat at the table.)     

       WORM. "With the vigilance 

 Prev. P 64/106 next