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THE ROBBERS.

Kozinski.

Thou art he!—in those features—that air,—Who could look at you, and not discover it?—(Looking earnestly at him for a long time.) It has been long my wish to see that man, whose countenance spoke terrors,—whose eye could not be borne;—'twas he who sat on the ruins of Carthage.—Now my wish is satisfied!

Switzer.

A fine mettled fellow!

Moor.

And who sent you to me?

Kozinski.

O Captain!—Fate, the cruellest fate!—I have been shipwreck'd on the stormy ocean of the world.—I have seen my fondest hopes evaporate in air,—and nought remain but the bitter recollection of disappointment;—a recollection that would drive me to madness, if I sought not to drown it, in feeding this restless, this impetuous spirit with new objects of pursuit.

Moor.

Here is another of heaven's outcasts.—Go on.—

Kozinski.

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