round the mouth, which distinguished him from among a
thousand. It is not he.

AMELIA. You surprise me. What! not seen him for eighteen years, and
still--

CHARLES (quickly, with a hectic blush). Yes, this is he! (He stands as
if struck by lightning.)

AMELIA. An excellent man!

CHARLES (absorbed in the contemplation of the picture). Father!
father! forgive me! Yes, an excellent man! (He wipes his eyes.) A
godlike man!

AMELIA. You seem to take a deep interest in him.

CHARLES. Oh, an excellent man! And he is gone, you say!

AMELIA. Gone! as our best joys perish. (Gently taking him by the
hand.) Dear Sir, no happiness ripens in this world.

CHARLES. Most true, most true! And have you already proved this truth
by sad experience? You, who can scarcely yet have seen your
twenty-third year?

AMELIA. Yes, alas, I have proved it. Whatever lives, lives to die in
sorrow. We engage our hearts, and grasp after the things of this world,
only to undergo the pang of losing them.

CHARLES. What can you have lost, and yet so young?

AMELIA. Nothing--everything--nothing. Shall we go on, count?*

*[In the acting edition is added--
"MOOR. And would you learn forgetfulness in that holy garb there?
(Pointing to a nun's habit.)
"AMELIA. To-morrow I hope to do so. Shall we continue our walk,
sir?"]

CHARLES. In such haste? Whose portrait is that on the right? There is
an unhappy look about that countenance, methinks.

AMELIA. That portrait on the left is the son of the count, the present
count. Come, let us pass on!

CHARLES. But this portrait on the right?

AMELIA. Will you not continue your walk, Sir?

CHARLES. But this portrait on the right hand? You are in tears,
Amelia? [Exit AMELIA, in precipitation.]

CHARLES. She loves me, she loves me! Her whole being began to rebel,
and the traitor tears rolled down her cheeks. She loves me! Wretch,
hast thou deserved this at her hands? Stand I not here like a condemned
criminal before the fatal block? Is this the couch on which we so often
sat--where I have hung in rapture on her neck? Are these my ancestral
halls? (Overcome by the sight of his father's portrait.) Thou--thou--
Flames of fire darting from thine eyes--His curse--His curse--He disowns
me--Where am I? My sight grows dim--Horrors of the living God--'Twas I,
'twas I that killed my father!
[He rushes off]

Enter FRANCIS VON MOOR, in deep thought.

FRANCIS. Away