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THE ROBBERS.

murders? Mark me well, young man! no laurel springs for the assassin—no triumph waits the victories of the robber—but curses, dangers, death, disgrace!—Seest thou yon gibbet on the side of the hill?

Spiegelberg.

(Walking about in a huff.) What an ass! blockhead; abominable, stupid ass! Is that the way? I would have set about it in another manner.

Kozinski.

What shall he fear, who does not fear death?

Moor.

Bravo! well said! you have been a clever youth at school—you have got your Seneca by heart most perfectly.—But, my good friend, with those fine sentences you will not lull to sleep the sufferings of nature—they will avail you nought against the sharp tooth of anguish.—Think well, young man, (he takes him by the hand,) think on the step you are going to take—I advise you as a parent—sound first the depth of the precipice, before you dare to leap it.—If in this world you can yet catch at a single glimpse of joy—there may

be

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