clusion that he has no just ground for
fear, and that it was only a dreadful ringing in the ears with which he
is sometimes afflicted. He thereupon rushes in pursuit of his bride, but
just as he arrives at the door of the bridal chamber, his progress is
arrested by the same black hob-goblin gentlemen who frighted the
dissipated chorus, as before related. This gentleman is recognized by
the outlaw in spite of his black clothes and mask, as the hateful old
tyrant who persecuted him to such an extent some time previously. The
outlaw groans a few times, and then the tyrant asks his victim if he
calls to mind his promise, and the words of the poet Tennyson,

"Leave me here, and when you want me
Sound upon the bugle horn."

The poor outlaw begs for his life; but the old tyrant remains
inexorable, and tells him that he must die.

The unhappy bride returns, and hearing her husband entreating the old
tyrant so fervently for a respite, unites her supplications with those
of her husband. To this the tyrant makes no direct answer, but merely
presents a poignard to the trembling outlaw, with a repetition of the
words of the poet Tennyson.

"Leave me here, and when you want me
Sound upon the bugle horn."

The outlaw perceiving no mode of escaping from this _horn_ of the
dilemma, seizes the poignard, drives it in his breast, and sinks
mortally wounded. The poor bride shrieks, and falls upon his body. Now
succeeds a scene of pulling and dragging on the floor. The wounded
tenor is called upon to struggle and writhe in all the agonies of death,
and the prima donna to follow him up in order to raise his head on her
knee, and thus give him an opportunity of singing his dying solo. To do
this in such a manner as not to render the whole thing ridiculous and
farcical, instead of tragic and touching, requires all the grace and
ease imaginable. When well done it is impressive; when badly it is
laughable; but whether touching or laughable, it is sure to be relished
by a large part of the audience, for it always discloses who has done
most for the prima donna's bust, dame nature or the mantua maker.

The tenor's head being elevated to the proper height, he expresses it as
his dying wish that the prima donna will continue to live and cherish
his memory. They then lament their unhappy fate in a short duo. The
tenor dies; the prima donna appears to do the same, but the libretto
consoles you by declaring that she only swoons.