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THE ROBBERS.
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not he whose syren song seduced us?—Here consecrate this sword to the avenging God, whose ways are incomprehensible.—Switzer, 'twas not thy hand that did this deed.

Switzer.

Zounds! but it was my hand.—And may I be curs'd, if I think it the worst action of my life. (Throws down his sword upon the body, and goes out in a passion.)

Moor.

(Very thoughtfully.) I see it plain! Father of Heaven! I know it. The dry leaves fall around—the autumn of my days is come!——Take him out of my sight. (The body of Spiegelberg is carried out.)

Grimm.

Give us our orders, Captain! What's to be done now?

Moor.

Soon—very soon will all be accomplished.—Of late I've lost myself.—Bid your trumpets speak.—I want that music. I must be suckled like a child, and rear'd again to deeds of horror.—Blow your trumpets!

X
Kozinski.
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