MAX. (rises and contemplates his father with looks of suspicion).

Was’t possible? hadst thou the heart, my father,
Hadst thou the heart to drive it to such lengths,
With cold premeditated purpose?  Thou—­
Hadst thou the heart to wish to see him guilty
Rather than saved?  Thou risest by his fall. 
Octavio, ’twill not please me.

OCTAVIO.

God in heaven!

MAX.

O, woe is me! sure I have changed my nature. 
How comes suspicion here—­in the free soul? 
Hope, confidence, belief, are gone; for all
Lied to me, all that I e’er loved or honored. 
No, no! not all!  She—­she yet lives for me,
And she is true, and open as the heavens! 
Deceit is everywhere, hypocrisy,
Murder, and poisoning, treason, perjury: 
The single holy spot is our love,
The only unprofaned in human nature.

OCTAVIO.

Max!—­we will go together.  ’Twill be better.

MAX.

What? ere I’ve taken a last parting leave,
The very last—­no, never!

OCTAVIO.

Spare thyself
The pang of necessary separation. 
Come with me!  Come, my son!

[Attempts to take him with him.]

MAX.

No! as sure as God lives, no!

OCTAVIO (more urgently).

Come with me, I command thee!  I, thy father.

MAX.

Command me what is human.  I stay here.

OCTAVIO.

Max! in the Emperor’s name I bid thee come.

MAX.

No Emperor has power to prescribe
Laws to the heart; and wouldst thou wish to rob me
Of the sole blessing which my fate has left me,
Her sympathy?  Must then a cruel deed
Be done with cruelty?  The unalterable
Shall I perform ignobly—­steal away,
With stealthy coward flight forsake her?  No! 
She shall behold my suffering, my sore anguish,
Hear the complaints of the disparted soul,
And weep tears o’er me.  Oh! the human race
Have steely souls—­but she is as an angel. 
From the black deadly madness of despair
Will she redeem my soul, and in soft words
Of comfort, plaining, loose this pang of death!

OCTAVIO.

Thou wilt not tear thyself away; thou canst not. 
O, come, my son!  I bid thee save thy virtue.

MAX.

Squander not thou thy words in vain. 
The heart I follow, for I dare trust to it.

OCTAVIO (trembling, and losing all self command).

Max!  Max! if that most damned thing could be,
If thou—­my son—­my own blood—­dare I think it? 
Do sell thyself to him, the infamous,
Do stamp this brand upon our noble house,
Then shall the world behold the horrible deed
And in unnatural combat shall the steel
Of the son trickle with the father’s blood.

MAX.

O hadst thou always better thought of men
Thou hadst then acted better.  Curst suspicion,
Unholy, miserable doubt!  To him
Nothing on earth remains unwrench’d and firm,
Who has no faith.