brave, the good,
kindhearted Florian--yes--he dies!

_Long._ Then only may your master be esteemed to live.

_Ber._ But whence this hatred to an unoffending youth?--one, whose form
delights all eyes, and whose virtues are the theme of every tongue?

_Long._ Fool! that person and those virtues of which you vaunt, are
with me his worst offences--they have undone my love and marred my
fortunes--the easy heart of Geraldine is captivated by the stripling's
specious outside, while his talents and achievements secure him with the
uncle undivided favour.

_Bert._ Can nothing but his blood appease your enmity?

_Long._ Nothing--for now my worst suspicions stand confirmed. I have
declared to De Valmont my passion for his niece, and the sullen
visionary has denied my suit--nay, insolently told me "Geraldine's
affections are another's right." --Curses on that minion's head!--'tis
for Florian De Valmont's heiress is reserved--and shall I suffer this
vile foundling, this child of charity, to lord it over those estates,
for which my impatient soul has paid a dreadful earnest! No, by heavens!
never!

_Bert._ Fatal avarice! already have we bartered for those curst estates
our everlasting peace!--for those did midnight flames surprise the sleep
of innocence--for those did the sacrificed Eugenia with her shrieking
babe--

_Long._ Wretch! dare not repeat those names! Now, mark me: this night
Florian returns a triumpher from his campaign--two of my trusty
blood-hounds watch the road to give me timely note of his approach. One
only follower attends the youth. In the thick woods 'twixt the chateau
and Huningen, an ambush safely laid, may end my rival and my fears
forever. In the west avenue, at sunset, I command your presence. Mark
me! I command you by your oath. [_Exit._

_Bert._ Miserable man! I am indeed a slave, soul and body--both are in
the thrall! I know the fiend I serve. If I attempt to fly, his vengeful
agency pursues me to the world's limit. No--my doom is fixed--I must
remain the very wretch I am for life--and after life--Oh! let me not
think of that!

Enter _Rosabelle_ behind, who taps his shoulder.

_Ros._ Talking to yourself, Mr. Bertrand? that's not polite in a lady's
company.

_Bert._ (_starting_) Ah! Rosabelle--good lass!--how art, Rosabelle?

_Ros._ Why, Mr. Bertrand, how pale you look, and your limbs quite
tremble--I fear me you are ill.

_Bert._ Oh, no--I am well--quite well--never better.

_Ros._