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THE ROBBERS.
63

O. Moor.

(Still in his sleep.) Are you there? Are you truly there? Ah! do not look so pitifully upon me!—I am miserable enough already! (He stirs restlessly.)

Amelia.

(Wakens him hastily.) Uncle! my dear uncle!—'Twas but a dream!

O. Moor.

(Half awake.) Was he not there? Had I not his hand in mine?—Is not this the smell of roses? O hateful Francis, will you not let me dream of him?

Amelia.

(Drawing back.) Mark'st thou that, Amelia!

O. Moor.

(Wakens.) Where am I?—Are you here, my niece?

Amelia.

You had a delightful sleep, uncle.

O. Moor.

I was dreaming of my Charles.—Why did they break my dreams?—I might have had my pardon from his mouth.

Amelia.

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