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THE ROBBERS.
195

O. Moor.

What dost thou say?—What dost thou mutter to thyself?

Moor.

Thy son!—Yes, old man, (hesitating), thy son is lost for ever!

O. Moor.

For ever?

Moor.

Ask me no more!—For ever!

O. Moor.

Why did you take me from yon hideous dungeon?

Moor.

But stay—If I could now but get his blessing—steal it from him like a thief, and so escape with that celestial treasure! (He throws himself at his feet.) I broke the iron bolts of the dungeon.—blessed old man! I ask thy kiss for that.

O. Moor.

(Pressing him to his bosom.) Take this, and think it is a father's kiss—and I will dream I hold my Charles to my breast.—What? can you weep?

B b 2
Moor.
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