FUeRST.

It had been madness to attempt his rescue,
Unarmed, and few in numbers as we were.

HEDWIG (casting herself upon his bosom).

Oh, father, and thou, too, hast lost my Tell! 
The country—­all have lost him!  All lament
His loss; and, oh, how he must pine for us! 
Heaven keep his soul from sinking to despair! 
No friend’s consoling voice can penetrate
His dreary dungeon walls.  Should he fall sick! 
Ah!  In the vapors of the murky vault
He must fall sick.  Even as the Alpine rose
Grows pale and withers in the swampy air,
There is no life for him but in the sun
And in the breath of Heaven’s fresh-blowing airs. 
Imprison’d!  Liberty to him is breath;
He cannot live in the rank dungeon air!

STAUFF.

Pray you be calm!  And hand in hand we’ll all
Combine to burst his prison doors.

HEDWIG.

He gone,
What have you power to do?  While Tell was free,
There still, indeed, was hope—­weak innocence
Had still a friend, and the oppress’d a stay. 
Tell saved you all!  You cannot all combined
Release him from his cruel prison bonds.

[The BARON wakes.]

BAUM.

Hush, hush!  He starts!

ATTINGHAUSEN (sitting up).

Where is he?

STAUFFACHER.

Who?

ATTINGHAUSEN.

He leaves me—­
In my last moments he abandons me.

STAUFF.

He means his nephew.  Have they sent for him?

FUeRST.

He has been summoned.  Cheer’ly, sir!  Take comfort! 
He has found his heart at last, and is our own.

ATTING.

Say, has he spoken for his native land?

STAUFF.

Ay, like a hero!

ATTINGHAUSEN.

Wherefore comes he not,
That he may take my blessing ere I die? 
I feel my life fast ebbing to a close.

STAUFF.

Nay, talk not thus, dear sir!  This last short sleep
Has much refresh’d you, and your eye is bright.

ATTING.

Life is but pain, and that has left me now;
My sufferings, like my hopes, have pass’d away.

[Observing the boy.]

What boy is that?

FUeRST.

Bless him.  Oh, good my lord! 
He is my grandson, and is fatherless.

[HEDWIG kneels with the boy before the dying man.]

ATTING.

And fatherless—­I leave you all, ay, all! 
Oh, wretched fate, that these old eyes should see
My country’s ruin, as they close in death! 
Must I attain the utmost verge of life,
To feel my hopes go with me to the grave?

STAUFFACHER (to FUeRST).

Shall he depart ’mid grief and gloom like this? 
Shall not his parting moments be illumed
By hope’s inspiring beams?  My noble lord,
Raise up your drooping spirit!  We are not
Forsaken quite—­past all deliverance.