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THE ROBBERS.
13

O. Moor

Do so, my son.—Oh, it would have broke my heart to have written to him! Write to him, that—

Francis.

(Hastily.) Is that agreed then?

O. Moor.

Write to him, that a thousand tears of blood, a thousand sleepless nights—But don't my son, don't drive him to despair.

Francis.

Come, Sir, Won't you go to bed,—this affects you too much.

O. Moor.

Write to him, that his father's heart—But do not drive him to despair! (He goes off in great agitation.)

Francis.

(Looking at him with an air of mockery.) Ay, be comforted, my good dotard. Never more shall you press your darling to your bosom;—no, there is a gulph between—distant as heaven from hell.—

He

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