III

_The pass near Kuessnacht, sloping down from behind, with
rocks on either side. The travelers are visible upon the
heights, before they appear on the stage. Rocks all around
the stage. Upon one of the foremost a projecting cliff
overgrown with brushwood._

TELL (_enters with his cross-bow_).

Through this ravine he needs must come. There is
No other way to Kuessnacht. Here I'll do it!
The ground is everything I could desire.
Yon elder bush will hide me from his view,
And from that point my shaft is sure to hit.
The straitness of the gorge forbids pursuit.
Now, Gessler, balance thine account with Heaven!
Thou must away from earth--thy sand is run.
Quiet and harmless was the life I led,
My bow was bent on forest game alone;
No thoughts of murder rested on my soul.
But thou hast scared me from my dream of peace;
The milk of human kindness thou hast turn'd
To rankling poison in my breast, and made
Appalling deeds familiar to my soul.
He who could make his own child's head his mark,
Can speed his arrow to his foeman's heart.
My boys, poor innocents, my loyal wife,
Must be protected, tyrant, from thy rage!
When last I drew my bow--with trembling hand--
And thou, with fiendishly remorseless glee
Forced me to level at my own boy's head,
When I, imploring pity, writhed before thee,
Then in the anguish of my soul, I vow'd
A fearful oath, which met God's ear alone,
That when my bow next wing'd an arrow's flight,
Its aim should be thy heart. The vow I made,
Amid the hellish torments of that moment,
I hold a sacred debt, and I will pay it.
Thou art my lord, my Emperor's delegate;
Yet would the Emperor not have stretch'd his power
So far as thou halt done. He sent thee here
To deal forth law--stern law--for he is wroth,
But not to wanton with unbridled will
In every cruelty, with fiend-like joy:--
There lives a God to punish and avenge.
Come forth, thou bringer once of bitter pangs,
My precious jewel now--my chiefest treasure--
A mark I'll set thee, which the cry of grief
Could never penetrate--but thou shalt pierce it--
And thou, my trusty bow-string, that so oft
For sport has served me faithfully and well,
Desert me not in this dread hour of need--
Only be true this once, my own good cord,
That hast so often wing'd the biting shaft:--
For shouldst thou fly successless from my hand,
I have no second to send after thee.

[_Travelers pass over the stage_.]

I'll sit me down upon this bench of stone,