[Bells heard.]

BOY.

Hark, they are ringing on the mountain, yonder! 
They surely see some vessel in distress. 
And toll the bell that we may pray for it.

[Ascends a rock.]

FISHER.

Woe to the bark that now pursues its course,
Rock’d in the cradle of these storm-tost waves! 
Nor helm nor steersman here can aught avail;
The storm is master.  Man is like a ball,
Toss’d ’twixt the winds and billows.  Far or near,
No haven offers him its friendly shelter! 
Without one ledge to grasp, the sheer smooth rocks
Look down inhospitably on his despair,
And only tender him their flinty breasts.

BOY (calling from above).

Father, a ship:  from Flueelen bearing down.

FISHER.

Heaven pity the poor wretches!  When the storm
Is once entangled in this strait of ours,
It rages like some savage beast of prey,
Struggling against its cage’s iron bars! 
Howling, it seeks an outlet—­all in vain;
For the rocks hedge it round on every side,
Walling the narrow gorge as high as Heaven.

[He ascends a cliff.]

BOY.

It is the Governor of Uri’s ship;
By its red poop I know it, and the flag.

FISHER.

Judgments of Heaven!  Yes, it is he himself,
It is the Governor!  Yonder he sails,
And with him bears the burden of his crimes. 
The avenger’s arm has not been slow to strike! 
Now over him he knows a mightier lord. 
These waves yield no obedience to his voice. 
These rocks bow not their heads before his cap. 
Boy, do not pray; stay not the Judge’s arm!

BOY.

I pray not for the Governor, I pray
For Tell who’s with him there on board the ship.

FISHER.

Alas, ye blind, unreasoning elements! 
Must ye, in punishing one guilty head,
Destroy the vessel and the pilot too?

BOY.

See, see, they’ve clear’d the Buggisgrat;[56] but now
The blast, rebounding from the Devil’s Minster,[56]
Has driven them back on the Great Axenberg.[56]
I cannot see them now.

FISHERMAN.

The Hakmesser[56]
Is there, that’s founder’d many a gallant ship. 
If they should fail to double that with skill,
Their bark will go to pieces on the rocks
That hide their jagged peaks below the lake. 
The best of pilots, boy, they have on board. 
If man could save them, Tell is just the man,
But he is manacled both hand and foot.

[Enter WILLIAM TELL, with his cross-bow.  He enters precipitately, looks wildly round, and testifies the most violent agitation.  When he reaches the centre of the stage, he throws himself upon his knees, and stretches out his hands, first toward the earth, then toward Heaven.]

BOY (observing him).

See, father!  A man on’s knees, who can it be?