to the toils that environ thee.  Thou helpless and I free!—­Here is the key that unlocks my chamber door.  My going out and my coming in, depend upon my own caprice; yet, alas; to aid thee I am powerless!—­Oh, bind me that I may not despair; hurl me into the deepest dungeon, that I may dash my head against the damp walls, groan for freedom, and dream how I would rescue him if fetters did not hold me bound.—­Now I am free, and in freedom lies the anguish of impotence.—­Conscious of my own existence, yet unable to stir a limb in his behalf, alas! even this insignificant portion of thy being, thy Clara, is, like thee, a captive, and, separated from thee, consumes her expiring energies in the agonies of death.—­I hear a stealthy step,—­a cough—­Brackenburg,—­’tis he!—­Kind, unhappy man, thy destiny remains ever the same; thy love opens to thee the door at night, alas! to what a doleful meeting.

(Enter Brackenburg.) Thou com’st so pale, so terrified!  Brackenburg!  What is it?

Brackenburg.  I have sought thee through perils and circuitous paths.  The principal streets are occupied with troops;—­through lanes and by-ways have I stolen to thee!

Clara.  Tell me, how is it?

Brackenburg (seating himself).  O Clara, let me weep.  I loved him not.  He was the rich man who lured to better a pasture the poor man’s solitary lamb.  I have never cursed him, God has created me with a true and tender heart.  My life was consumed in anguish, and each day I hoped would end my misery.

Clara.  Let that be forgotten, Brackenburg!  Forget thyself.  Speak to me of him!  Is it true?  Is he condemned?

Brackenburg.  He is!  I know it.

Clara.  And still lives?

Brackenburg.  Yes, he still lives.

Clara.  How canst thou be sure of that?  Tyranny murders the hero in the night!  His blood flows concealed from every eye.  The people stunned and bewildered, lie buried in sleep, dream of deliverance, dream of the fulfilment of their impotent wishes, while, indignant at our supineness, his spirit abandons the world.  He is no more!  Deceive me not; deceive not thyself!

Brackenburg.  No,—­he lives! and the Spaniards, alas, are preparing for the people, on whom they are about to trample, a terrible spectacle, in order to crush for ever, by a violent blow, each heart that yet pants for freedom.

Clara.  Proceed!  Calmly pronounce my death-warrant also!  Near and more near I approach that blessed land, and already from those realms of peace, I feel the breath of consolation say on.

Brackenburg.  From casual words, dropped here and there by the guards, I learned that secretly in the market-place they were preparing some terrible spectacle.  Through by-ways and familiar lanes I stole to my cousin’s house, and from a back window, looked out upon the market-place.  Torches waved to and fro, in the hands of a wide circle of Spanish soldiers.  I sharpened my unaccustomed