ardy clock, and
when every pulse-throb was counted until the moment of my coming. How is
it that I now surprise?

MILLER. Oh, leave us, leave us, baron! If but one spark of humanity
still linger in your bosom;--if you seek not utterly to destroy her whom
you profess to love, fly from this house, stay not one moment longer.
The blessing of God deserted us when your foot first crossed its
threshold. You have brought misery under a roof where all before was joy
and happiness. Are you not yet content? Do you seek to deepen the wound
which your fatal passion has planted in the heart of my only child?

FERDINAND. Strange father, I have come to bring joyful tidings to your
daughter.

MILLER. Perchance fresh hopes, to add to her despair. Away, away, thou
messenger of ill! Thy looks belie thy words.

FERDINAND. At length the goal of my hopes appears in view! Lady
Milford, the most fearful obstacle to our love, has this moment fled the
land. My father sanctions my choice. Fate grows weary of persecuting
us, and our propitious stars now blaze in the ascendant--I am come to
fulfil my plighted troth, and to lead my bride to the altar.

MILLER. Dost thou hear him, my child? Dost thou hear him mock at thy
cheated hopes? Oh, truly, baron! It is so worthy of the deceiver to
make a jest of his own crime!

FERDINAND. You think I am jesting? By my honor I am not! My
protestations are as true as the love of my Louisa, and I will keep them
as sacred as she has kept her oaths. Nothing to me is more sacred. Can
you still doubt? Still no joyful blush upon the cheek of my fair bride?
'Tis strange! Falsehood must needs be here the current coin, since truth
finds so little credit. You mistrust my words, it seems? Then read this
written testimony. (He throws LOUISA her letter to the MARSHAL. She
opens it, and sinks upon the floor pale as death.)

MILLER (not observing this). What can this mean, baron? I do not
understand you.

FERDINAND. (leads him to LOUISA). But your daughter has understood me
well.

MILLER (throws himself on his knees beside her). Oh, God! my child!

FERDINAND. 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 count