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THE ROBBERS.
Amelia.
(Passionately) His pardon! Angels have no resentment. He forgives you, uncle. (Pressing his hand.) Father of my Charles, I forgive you too.
O. Moor.
No, no, my child,—that wan cheek,—that deadly pale bears witness,—in spite of thee! Poor girl!—I have blasted all the promise of thy spring,—thy joys of youth.—Don't forgive me,—but oh, do not curse me!
Amelia.
Can there be a curse of love[1]?—Here it is then, my father. (Kisses his hand with tenderness.)
O. Moor.
(Rising from the bed.) What's here, my child? Roses? Did you strew these roses here? On me?—On me, who killed your Charles?
Amelia.
I strew'd them on his father! (Falling on his neck.) No more on him can I strew them!
O. Moor.
- ↑ Germ. Die liebe hat nur einen fluch gelernt. Love has learnt but one curse.