tience! How nimble this Satan is, when his business is to drive
humanity distracted! I have bowed him to the earth! I must raise him up
again! Speak to me! Counsel me! What can I, what must I do?

WORM. There is but one means of saving him!

LOUISA. What is that means?

WORM. And your father approves of it----

LOUISA. My father? Oh! name that means.

WORM. It is easy for you to execute.

LOUISA. I know of nothing harder than infamy!

WORM. Suppose you were to release the major from his engagement?

LOUISA. Release him! Do you mock me? Do you call that a choice to
which force compelled me?

WORM. You mistake me, dear girl! The major must resign you willingly,
and be the first to retract his engagement.

LOUISA. That he will never do.

WORM. So it appears. Should we, do you think, have had recourse to you
were it not that you alone are able to help us?

LOUISA. I cannot compel him to hate me.

WORM. We will try! Be seated.

LOUISA (drawing back). Man! What is brooding in thy artful brain?

WORM. Be seated. Here are paper, pens, and ink. Write what I dictate.

LOUISA (sitting down in the greatest uneasiness). What must I write? To
whom must I write?

WORM. To your father's executioner.

LOUISA. Ah! How well thou knowest to torture souls to thy purpose.
(Takes a pen.)

WORM (dictating to her). "My dear Sir (LOUISA writes with a trembling
hand,) three days, three insupportable days, have already passed--already
passed--since last we met."

LOUISA (starts, and lays down her pen). To whom is the letter?

WORM. To your father's executioner.

LOUISA. Oh! my God!

WORM. "But for this you must blame the major--the major--who watches me
all day with the vigilance of an Argus."

LOUISA (starting up). Villany! Villany beyond all precedent! To whom
is the letter?

WORM. To your father's executioner.

LOUISA (paces to and fro, wringing her hands). No, no, no! This is
tyrannical! Oh Heaven! If mortals provoke thee, punish them like
mortals; but wherefore must I be placed between two precipices?
Wherefore am I hurled by turns from death to infamy, from infamy to
death? Wherefore is my neck made the footstool of this blood-sucking
fiend? No; do what thou wilt, I will never write that!

WORM (seizing his hat). As you please, miss! It rests entirely on your
own pleasure!

LOUISA. Pleasure, say'st thou? On my own pleasure? Go, barbarian!
Suspend some unfortunate over the pit of hell; then make your deman