Gab.

The Imperial?

In what service?

Wer. (quickly, and then interrupting himself). I commanded-no-I mean

I served; but it is many years ago,

When first Bohemia raised her banner 'gainst

The Austrian.

Gab.

Well, that's over now, and peace

Has turn'd some thousand gallant hearts adrift
To live as they best may; and, to say truth,
Some take the shortest.

Lusatia's woods are tenanted by bands

Of the late troops, who levy on the country
Their maintenance: the Chatelains must keep
Their castle walls-beyond them 'tis but doubtful
Travel for your rich count or full-blown baron.
My comfort is that, wander where I may,

I've little left to lose now.

Wer.

And I-nothing.

Gab. That's harder still. You say you were a

soldier.

Wer. I was.

Gab.

You look one still. All soldiers are Or should be comrades, even though enemies. Our swords when drawn must cross, our engines aim (While levell'd) at each other's hearts; but when A truce, a peace, or what you will, remits The steel into its scabbard, and lets sleep

The spark which lights the matchlock, we are brethren.

You are poor and sickly —I am not rich but healthy;
I want for nothing which I cannot want;
You seem devoid of this-wilt share it?

In saying you were a soldier during peace-time. Wer. (looking at him with suspicion). You know

Gab.

me not?

I know no man, not even

Myself: how should I then know one I ne'er

Beheld till half an hour since?

Wer.

Sir, I thank you.

Your offer's noble were it to a friend,

And not unkind as to an unknown stranger,

Though scarcely prudent; but no less I thank you. I am a beggar in all save his trade;

And when I beg of any one, it shall be

Of him who was the first to offer what

Few can obtain by asking. Pardon me. [Exit WER. Gab. (solus). A goodly fellow by his looks, though

worn,

As most good fellows are, by pain or pleasure,
Which tear life out of us before our time;

I scarce know which most quickly: but he seems
To have seen better days, as who has not
Who has seen yesterday? But here approaches
Our sage intendant, with the wine: however,
For the cup's sake I'll bear the cupbearer.

Enter IDENSTEIN.

Iden. 'Tis here! the supernaculum! twenty years Of age, if 'tis a day.

Which epoch makes

Gab. Young women and old wine; and 'tis great pity, Of two such excellent things, increase of years, Which still improves the one, should spoil the other. Fill full-Here's to our hostess!-your fair wife! [Takes the glass.

Iden. Fair!-Well, I trust your taste in wine is

equal

To that you show for beauty; but I pledge you
Nevertheless.

Gab.

Is not the lovely woman

I met in the adjacent hall, who, with

An air, and port, and eye, which would have better Beseem'd this palace in its brightest days

(Though in a garb adapted to its present Abandonment), return'd my salutationIs not the same your spouse?

I would she were!

Iden. But you're mistaken:-that's the stranger's wife. Gab. And by her aspect she might be a prince's: Though time hath touch'd her too, she still retaips Much beauty, and more majesty.

Iden.

And that

Is more than I can say for Madame Idenstein,

At least in beauty: as for majesty,

She has some of its properties which might
Be spared-but never mind!

Gab.

I don't.

But who

May be this stranger? He too hath a bearing
Above his outward fortunes.

Iden.

There I differ.

He's poor as Job, and not so patient; but
Who he may be, or what, or aught of him,
Except his name (and that I only learn'd
To-night), I know not.

Gab.

But how came he here?

Iden. In a most miserable old caleche, About a month since, and immediately

Fell sick, almost to death. He should have died. Gab. Tender and true! —but why?

Iden. Why, what is life Without a living? He has not a stiver.

Gab. In that case, I much wonder that a person Of your apparent prudence should admit

Guests so forlorn into this noble mansion.

Iden. That's true; but pity, as you know, does make One's heart commit these follies; and besides, They had some valuables left at that time, Which paid their way up to the present hour; And so I thought they might as well be lodged Here as at the small tavern, and I gave them The run of some of the oldest palace rooms. They served to air them, at the least as long As they could pay for fire-wood.

Iden. Oh! Heaven knows where, unless to heaven

But hark! a noise of wheels and voices, and
A blaze of torches from without. As sure
As destiny, his excellency 's come.

I must be at my post: will you not join me,
To help him from his carriage, and present
Your humble duty at the door?

Gab.

I dragg'd him

From out that carriage when he would have given His barony or county to repel

The rushing river from his gurgling throat.

He has valets now enough: they stood aloof then,
Shaking their dripping ears upon the shore,
All roaring "Help!" but offering none; and as
For duty (as you call it)-I did mine then,

Now do yours. Hence, and bow and cringe him here!
Iden. I cringe!--but I shall lose the opportunity-
Plague take it! he'll be here, and I not there!

[Exit IDENSTEIN hastily.

Re-enter WErner.

Wer. (to himself). I heard a noise of wheels and

voices. How

All sounds now jar me!

Still here! Is he not

A

[Perceiving GABOR.

spy of my pursuer's? His frank offer