ort of marriage,
With an Italian exile's dark-eyed daughter:
Noble, they say, too; but no match for such
A house as Siegendorf's. The grandsire ill
Could brook the alliance; and could ne'er be brought
To see the parents, though he took the son. 100

_Iden._ If he's a lad of mettle, he may yet
Dispute your claim, and weave a web that may
Puzzle your Baron to unravel.

_Fritz_. Why,
For mettle, he has quite enough: they say,
He forms a happy mixture of his sire
And grandsire's qualities,--impetuous as
The former, and deep as the latter; but
The strangest is, that he too disappeared
Some months ago.

_Iden._ The devil he did!

_Fritz_. Why, yes:
It must have been at _his_ suggestion, at 110
An hour so critical as was the eve
Of the old man's death, whose heart was broken by it.

_Iden._ Was there no cause assigned?

_Fritz_. Plenty, no doubt,
And none, perhaps, the true one. Some averred
It was to seek his parents; some because
The old man held his spirit in so strictly
(But that could scarce be, for he doted on him);
A third believed he wished to serve in war,
But, peace being made soon after his departure,
He might have since returned, were that the motive; 120
A fourth set charitably have surmised,
As there was something strange and mystic in him,
That in the wild exuberance of his nature
He had joined the black bands[172], who lay waste Lusatia,
The mountains of Bohemia and Silesia,
Since the last years of war had dwindled into
A kind of general condottiero system
Of bandit-warfare; each troop with its chief,
And all against mankind.

_Iden._ That cannot be.
A young heir, bred to wealth and luxury, 130
To risk his life and honours with disbanded
Soldiers and desperadoes!

_Fritz_. Heaven best knows!
But there are human natures so allied
Unto the savage love of enterprise,
That they will seek for peril as a pleasure.
I've heard that nothing can reclaim your Indian,
Or tame the tiger, though their infancy
Were fed on milk and honey. After all,
Your Wallenstein, your Tilly and Gustavus,
Your Bannier