INAND. Pale as a corpse! 'Tis thus your daughter pleases me the
best. Your demure and virtuous daughter was never half so lovely as with
that deathlike paleness. The blast of the day of judgment, which strips
the varnish from every lie, has wafted the painted colors from her cheek,
or the juggler might have cheated even the angels of light. This is her
fairest countenance. Now for the first time do I see it in its truth.
Let me kiss it. (He approaches her.)

MILLER. Back! Away, boy! Trifle not with a father's feelings. I could
not defend her from your caresses, but I can from your insults.

FERDINAND. What wouldst thou, old man? With thee I have naught to do.
Engage not in a game so irrevocably lost. Or hast thou, too, been wiser
than I thought? Hast thou employed the wisdom of thy sixty years in
pandering to thy daughter's amours, and disgraced those hoary locks with
the office of a pimp? Oh! if it be not so, wretched old man, then lay
thyself down and die. There is still time. Thou mayest breathe by last
in the sweet delusion, "I was a happy father!" Wait but a moment longer
and thine own hand will dash to her infernal home this poisonous viper;
thou wilt curse the gift, and him who gave it, and sink to the grave in
blasphemy and despair. (To LOUISA.) Speak, wretched one, speak! Didst
thou write this letter?

MILLER (to LOUISA, impressively). For God's sake, daughter, forget not!
forget not!

LOUISA. Oh, father--that letter!

FERDINAND. Oh! that it should have fallen into the wrong hands. Now
blessed be the accident! It has effected more than the most consummate
prudence, and will at the day of judgment avail more than the united
wisdom of sages. Accident, did I say? Oh! Providence directs, when a
sparrow falls, why not when a devil is unmasked? But I will be answered!
Didst thou write that letter?

MILLER (to LOUISA, in a tone of entreaty). Be firm, my child, be firm!
But a single "Yes," and all will be over.

FERDINAND. Excellent! excellent! The father, too, is deceived! All,
all are deceived by her! Look, how the perfidious one stands there; even
her tongue refuses participation in her last lie. I adjure thee by that
God so terrible and true--didst thou write that letter?

LOUISA (after a painful struggle, with firmness and decision). I did!

FERDINAND (stands aghast). No! As my soul liveth, thou hast lied. Even
innocence itself, when extended on the rack, confesses crime which it
never committed--I ask t