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THE ROBBERS.

trate who decides upon life and death;—and I have one word for you,—and two for your band.

Moor.

Which is?——(Reflecting upon his sword.)

Commissary.

Abominable wretch!—Are not those cursed hands imbrued in the noble blood of a Count of the empire?—Hast thou not, with sacrilegious arm, broke open the sanctuary of the Lord, and impiously carried off the sacred vessels? Hast thou not set fire to our most upright and sanctified city, and blown up our holy powder-magazine over the heads of many pious Christians? (Clasping his hands.) Abomination of abominations! The horrible favour of thy sins has ascended to Heaven, and will bring on the day of judgement before its time, to punish such a wicked—damn'd—infernal monster!——

Moor.

A masterly oration, upon my word!—but now to the point in hand.—What did the most august magistrate please to inform me of by your mouth?

Commissary.

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