expecting my cousin, and I look too untidy. Come, Mother, help me a
moment. Take the book,
Brackenburg, and bring me such another story.

Mother. Farewell.

Brackenburg (extending his hand). Your hand.

Clara (refusing hers). When you come next.

[Exeunt Mother and DAUGHTER.

Brackenburg (alone). I had resolved to go away again at once; and yet,
when she takes me at my word, and lets me leave her, I feel as if I could
go mad,--Wretched man! Does the fate of thy fatherland, does the growing
disturbance fail to move thee?--Are countryman and Spaniard the same to
thee? and carest thou not who rules, and who is in the right? I wad a
different sort of fellow as a schoolboy! --Then, when an exercise in
oratory was given; "Brutus' Speech for Liberty," for instance, Fritz was
ever the first, and the rector would say: "If it were only spoken more
deliberately, the words not all huddled together."--Then my blood boiled,
and longed for action.--Now I drag along, bound by the eyes of a maiden.
I cannot leave her! yet she, alas, cannot love me!--ah--no---she--she
cannot have entirely rejected me--not entirely--yet half love is no love!--I
will endure it no longer!--Can it be true what a friend lately whispered in
my ear, that she secretly admits a man into the house by night, when she
always sends me away modestly before evening? No, it cannot be true! It
is a lie! A base, slanderous lie! Clara is as innocent as I am wretched.--She
has rejected me, has thrust me from her heart--and shall I live on thus? I
cannot, I will not endure it. Already my native land is convulsed by