SCENE III.
The pass near Kussnacht, sloping down from behind, with rocks on
either side. The travellers are visible upon the heights, before they
appear on the stage. Rocks all round the stage. Upon one of the
foremost a projecting cliff overgrown with brushwood.
TELL. (enters with his crossbow).
Through this ravine he needs must come. There is
No other way to Kussnacht. Here I'll do it!
The ground is everything I could desire.
Yon elder bush will hide me from his view,
And from that point my shaft is sure to hit.
The straitness of the gorge forbids pursuit.
Now, Gessler, balance thine account with Heaven!
Thou must away from earth,-thy sand is run.
Quiet and harmless was the life I led,
My bow was bent on forest game alone;
No thoughts of murder rested on my soul.
But thou hast scared me from my dream of peace;
The milk of human kindness thou hast turn'd
To rankling poison in my breast; and made
Appalling deeds familiar to my soul.
He who could make his own child's head his mark,
Can speed his arrow to his foeman's heart.
My boys, poor innocents, my loyal wife,
Must be protected, tyrant, from thy rage!
When last I drew my bow-with trembling hand-
And thou, with fiendishly remorseless glee
Forced me to level at my own boy's head,
When I, imploring pity, writhed before thee,
Then in the anguish of my soul, I vow'd
A fearful oath, which met God's ear alone,
That when my bow next wing'd an arrow's flight,
Its aim should be thy heart. The vow I made,
Amid the hellish torments of that moment,
I hold a sacred debt, and I will pay it.
Thou art my lord, my Emperor's delegate;
Yet would the Emperor not have stretch'd his power,
So far as thou hast done. He sent thee here
To deal forth law-stern law-for he is wroth;
But not to wanton with unbridled will
In every cruelty, with fiend-like joy:-
There lives a God to punish and avenge.
Come forth, thou bringer once of bitter pangs,
My precious jewel now,-my chiefest treasure-
A mark I'll set thee, which the cry of grief
Could never penetrate,-but thou shalt pierce it,-
And thou, my trusty bowstring, that so oft
For sport has served me faithfully and well,
Desert me not in this dread hour of need,-
Only be true this once, my own good cord,
That hast so often wing'd the biting shaft:-
For shouldst thou fly successless from my hand,
I have no second to send after thee.
[Travellers pass over the stage.]
I'll sit me down upon this bench of stone,
Hewn for the way-worn traveller's brief repose-
For here there is no home. Men hurry past
Each other, with quick step and careless look,
Nor stay to question of their grief. Here goes
The merchant, all anxiety,-the pilgrim,
With scanty furnished scrip,--the pious monk,
The scowling robber, and the jovial player,
The carrier with his heavy-laden horse,
That comes to us from the far haunts of men;
For every road conducts to the world's end.
They all push onwards-every man intent
On his own several business-mine is murder!
[Sits down.]
Time was, my dearest children, when with joy
You hail'd your father's safe return to home
From his long mountain toils; for, when he came,
He ever brought with him some little gift,-
A lovely Alpine flower-a curious bird-
Or elf-bolt such as on the hills are found.
But now he goes in quest of other game,
Sits in this gorge, with murder in his thoughts,
And for his enemy's life-blood lies in wait.
But still it is of you alone he thinks,
Dear children. 'Tis to guard your innocence,
To shield you from the tyrant's fell revenge,
He bends his bow to do a deed of blood!
[Rises.]
Well-I am watching for a noble prey-
Does not the huntsman, with unflinching heart,
Roam for whole days, when winter frosts are keen,
Leap at the risk of death from rock to rock,-
And climb the jagged, slippery steeps, to which
His limbs are glued by his own streaming blood-
And all to hunt a wretched chamois down?
A far more precious prize is now my aim-
The heart of that dire foe, who seeks my life.
