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THE ROBBERS.
3

years to his life.—Alas! every fresh account I hear brings me a step nearer to the grave!

Francis.

Is it so, old man?—Live then for me! Heaven forbid that I should e'er abridge your days[1]!

O. Moor.

Stay! There is but one step more;—one little step. Let him accomplish his will, (sitting down.) The sins of the fathers must be punished, to the third and fourth generation.—Be it even so!

Francis.

(Taking the letter out of his pocket.) You know our correspondent's writing. There—I would give a finger of my right hand, to be able to say he is a liar;—a black infernal liar. Call up all your fortitude, Sir.—Pardon me if I don't let you read this letter;—it were too much to know all at once.

O. Moor.

All, did you say? My son, you wish to spare this gray head; but——

Francis.

  1. ↑ Germ. Wir wurden noch heute die haare ausraufen uber euerm sarge. We will not tear our hair out over your coffin to-day.
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