, live with us, as we live only for thy sake! In taking
thine own life, thou wilt take ours also; still live and suffer. We
will stand by thee, nothing shall sever us from thy side, and love,
with ever-watchful solicitude, shall prepare for thee the sweetest
consolation in its loving arms. Be ours! Ours! I dare not say, mine.

Clara. Hush, Brackenburg! Thou feelest not what chord thou touchest.
Where hope appears to thee, I see only despair.

Brackenburg. Share hope with the living! Pause on the brink of the
precipice, cast one glance into the gulf below, and then look back on
us.

Clara. I have conquered; call me not back to the struggle.

Brackenburg. Thou art stunned; enveloped in night, thou seekest the
abyss. Every light is not yet extinguished, yet many days--!

Clara. Alas! Alas! Cruelly thou dost rend the veil from before mine
eyes. Yes, the day will dawn! Despite its misty shroud it needs must
dawn. Timidly the burgher razes from his window, night leaves behind an
ebon speck; he looks, and the scaffold looms fearfully in the morning
light. With re-awakened anguish the desecrated image of the Saviour
lifts to the Father its imploring eyes. The sun veils his beams, he will
not mark the hero's death-hour. Slowly the fingers go their round--one
hour strikes after another--hold! Now is the time. The thought of the
morning scares me into the grave.

(She goes to the window as if to look out, and drinks secretly.)

Brackenburg. Clara! Clara!

Clara (goes to the table, and drinks water). Here is the remainder. I
invite thee not to follow me. Do as thou wilt; farewell. Extinguish this
lamp silently and without delay; I am going to rest. Steal quietly
away, close the door after thee. Be still! Wake not my Mother! Go, save
thyself, if thou wouldst not be taken for my murderer. [Exit.

Brackenburg. She leaves me for the last time as she has ever done. What
human soul could conceive how cruelly she lacerates the heart that
loves her? She leaves me to myself, leaves me to choose between life and
death, and both are alike hateful to me. To die alone! Weep, ye tender
souls! Fate has no sadder doom than mine. She shares with me the
death-potion, yet sends me from her side! She draws me after her, yet
thrusts me back into life! Oh, Egmont, how enviable a lot falls to thee!
She goes before thee! The crown of victory from her hand is thine, she
brings all heaven to meet thee!--And shall I follow? Again to stand
aloof? To