art no impostor. It is too
true--true--he is dead--dead! (staggering to and fro till she sinks
down)--dead--Charles is dead!

FRANCIS. What do I see? What is this line on the sword?--written with
blood--Amelia!

AMELIA. By him?

FRANCIS. Do I see clearly, or am I dreaming? Behold, in characters of
blood, "Francis, forsake not my Amelia." And on the other side,
"Amelia, all-powerful death has released thee from thy oath." Now do
you see--do you see? With hand stiffening in death he wrote it, with
his warm life's blood he wrote it--wrote it on the solemn brink of
eternity. His spirit lingered in his flight to unite Francis and
Amelia.

AMELIA. Gracious heaven! it is his own hand. He never loved me.
[Rushes off]

FRANCIS (stamping the ground). Confusion! her stubborn heart foils all
my cunning!

OLD MOOR. Woe, woe! forsake me not, my daughter! Francis, Francis!
give me back my son!

FRANCIS. Who was it that cursed him? Who was it that drove his son
into battle, and death, and despair? Oh, he was an angel, a jewel of
heaven! A curse on his destroyers! A curse, a curse upon yourself!

OLD MOOR (strikes his breast and forehead with his clenched fist). He
was an angel, a jewel of heaven! A curse, a curse, perdition, a curse
on myself! I am the father who slew his noble son! He loved me even to
death! To expiate my vengeance he rushed into battle and into death!
Monster, monster that I am! (He rages against himself.)

FRANCIS. He is gone. What avail these tardy lamentations? (with a
satanic sneer.) It is easier to murder than to restore to life. You
will never bring him back from his grave.

OLD Moon. Never, never, never bring him back from the grave! Gone!
lost for ever! And you it was that beguiled my heart to curse him.--
you--you--Give me back my son!

FRANCIS. Rouse not my fury, lest I forsake you even in the hour of
death!

OLD MOOR. Monster! inhuman monster! Restore my son to me. (Starts
from the chair and attempts to catch FRANCIS by the throat, who flings
him back.)

FRANCIS. Feeble old dotard I would you dare? Die! despair!
[Exit.]

OLD MOOR. May the thunder of a thousand curses light upon thee! thou
hast robbed me of my son. (Throwing himself about in his chair full of
despair). Alas! alas! to despair and yet not die. They fly, they
forsake me in death; my guardian angels fly from me; all the saints
withdraw from the hoary murderer. Oh, misery