th anxious tenderness.

And is it possible he aimed at thee?
How could he do it? Oh, he has no heart--
And he could wing an arrow at his child!

FURST.
His soul was racked with anguish when he did it.
No choice was left him, but to shoot or die!

HEDWIG.
Oh, if he had a father's heart, he would
Have sooner perished by a thousand deaths!

STAUFFACHER.
You should be grateful for God's gracious care,
That ordered things so well.

HEDWIG.
Can I forget
What might have been the issue. God of heaven!
Were I to live for centuries, I still
Should see my boy tied up,--his father's mark,
And still the shaft would quiver in my heart!

MELCHTHAL.
You know not how the viceroy taunted him!

HEDWIG.
Oh, ruthless heart of man! Offend his pride,
And reason in his breast forsakes her seat;
In his blind wrath he'll stake upon a cast
A child's existence, and a mother's heart!

BAUMGARTEN.
Is then your husband's fate not hard enough,
That you embitter it by such reproaches?
Have you no feeling for his sufferings?

HEDWIG (turning to him and gazing full upon him).
Hast thou tears only for thy friend's distress?
Say, where were you when he--my noble Tell,
Was bound in chains? Where was your friendship, then?
The shameful wrong was done before your eyes;
Patient you stood, and let your friend be dragged,
Ay, from your very hands. Did ever Tell
Act thus to you? Did he stand whining by
When on your heels the viceroy's horsemen pressed,
And full before you roared the storm-tossed lake?
Oh, not with idle tears he showed his pity;
Into the boat he sprung, forgot his home,
His wife, his children, and delivered thee!

FURST.
It had been madness to attempt his rescue,
Unarmed, and few in numbers as we were.

HEDWIG (casting herself upon his bosom).
Oh, father, and thou, too, hast lost my Tell!
The country--all have lost him! All lament
His loss; and, oh, how he must pine for us!
Heaven keep his soul from sinking to despair!
No friend's consoling voice can penetrate
His dreary dungeon walls. Should befall sick!
Ah! In the vapors of the murky vault
He must fall sick. Even as the Alpine rose
Grows pale and withers in the swampy air,
There is no life for him, but in the sun,
And in the balm of heaven's refreshing breeze.
Imprisoned? Liberty to him is breath;
He cannot live in the rank dungeon air!

STAUFFACHER.
Pray you be calm! And, hand in hand, we'll all
Combine to burst his prison doors.

HEDWIG.