_distressed_).
No, nevermore, my Prince! What are you saying?

HOHENZOLL. He wants to die--

TRUCHSZ. He shall not, must not die!

VARIOUS OFFICERS (_pressing forward_).
My lord Elector! Oh, my sovereign! Hear us!

THE PRINCE. Hush! It is my inflexible desire!
Before the eyes of all the soldiery
I wronged the holy code of war; and now
By my free death I wish to glorify it.
My brothers, what's the one poor victory
I yet may snatch from Wrangel worth to you
Against the triumph o'er the balefullest
Of foes within, that I achieve at dawn--
The insolent and disobedient heart.
Now shall the alien, seeking to bow down
Our shoulders 'neath his yoke, be crushed; and, free,
The man of Brandenburg shall take his stand
Upon the mother soil, for it is his--
The splendor of her meads alone for him!

KOTTWITZ (_moved_).
My son! My dearest friend! What shall I name you?

TRUCHSZ. God of the world!

KOTTWITZ. Oh, let me kiss your hand!

[_They press round him._]

THE PRINCE (_turning toward the_ ELECTOR).
But you, my liege, who bore in other days
A tenderer name I may no longer speak,
Before your feet, stirred to my soul, I kneel.
Forgive, that with a zeal too swift of foot
I served your cause on that decisive day;
Death now shall wash me clean of all my guilt.
But give my heart, that bows to your decree,
Serene and reconciled, this comfort yet:
To know your breast resigns all bitterness--
And, in the hour of parting, as a proof,
One favor more, compassionately grant.

ELECTOR. Young hero, speak! What is it you desire?
I pledge my word to you, my knightly honor,
It shall be granted you, whate'er it be!

THE PRINCE. Not with your niece's hand, my sovereign,
Purchase the peace of Gustaf Karl! Expel,
Out of the camp, expel the bargainer
Who made this ignominious overture.
Write your response to him in cannon-shots!

ELECTOR (_kissing his brow_).
As you desire then. With this kiss, my son,
That last appeal I grant. Indeed, wherein
Now have we need of such a sacrifice
That war's ill-fortune only could compel?
Why, in each word that you have spoken, buds
A victory that strikes the foeman low!
I'll write to him, the plighted bride is she
Of Homburg, dead because of Fehrbellin;
With his pale ghost, before our flags a-charge,
Let him do battle for her, on the field