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THE ROBBERS.
21

Amelia.

Detested, shameless slanderer!

Francis.

Does this image of thy lover inspire thee with horror? Then paint him, Amelia, in your own imagination—the lovely, the divine, the angelic Charles! Go! enjoy the ambrosia of his lips—inhale his balmy breath! (Amelia hides her face with her hands.) Oh extacy! What rapture in those embraces!—But is it not most unjust—nay cruel, to condemn a man because he is so unfortunate as to be the victim of disease? May not a great soul inhabit a foul carcase? (With malignant irony.) May not the beauties of the mind dwell in a tainted body—or the soft voice of love issue from the lips of corruption?—True indeed, if the poison of debauchery should taint the soul as well as the body; if impurity and virtue were inconsistent, as a withered rose loses its perfume, then——

Amelia.

(With rapture.) Ha! once more I know my Charles! my own Charles! Liar! 'tis false as hell! You know, monster! it is impossible! (Francis remains for a while absorpt in thought,

and

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