[She closes her veil and crosses to one side of the stage.  The others afterwards do the same.

Grenadier.  It is my sister, friends.  She is repeating the words of our last adieu.

Second Woman.  Oh, my father! why have you left your child?  Alas! when you went away I played—­poor fool!—­with your brilliant uniform. (Dark livery of death, would that I had never seen thee!) I said I should be proud of you when you came back to me, having killed a great many of your enemies.  Child that I was to speak of killing, not knowing what it meant!  And now, when will you return?  What have they done with you, dear Father?  What has become of that revered head, which my lips never approached but with respect?  Perhaps at this very moment it is dragged, all stained and livid, through the dust or in the mud.  Oh, God! if my prayers may still avail for him, withdraw him speedily from those frightful conflicts, where every blow falls upon a father, a son, a brother, or a husband.  Pity the many tears that flow for every drop of blood!

Highlander.  It is my daughter!  I yet hear the last farewell her innocent mouth sent after me.

Third Woman.  Oh, my beloved! where can I go to look for you?  Little did we think, when we vowed before God never in this life to forsake each other, that War would come and carry you away as a leaf is driven before the wind.  Perhaps at this moment you are stretched upon an armful of bloody straw, and other hands than mine dress your glorious wounds.  Ah, miserable me! of what does my tender jealousy complain?  Who knows if you are not by this time safe from wounds for ever?  Oh, my God! if Thou hast taken him, take me also.  I promised to follow him when I received his parting kiss.

Hussar.  It is my wife beyond a doubt!  I recognize the words her sweet voice murmured that very day in my ear.

Fourth Woman.  I said, “Go, and bear yourself like a man.”  He went, and he has not returned.  Ah, merciless tigers! we rear our children with fear and weeping.  We pass whole nights bent over their little cradles, and when we have made men of them you come and take them away from us that you may send them to death.  And we, miserable women! must encourage them to die if we would not have them dishonoured.  Poor dear boy! so strong! so handsome! so good to his mother!  Ah! if there be a God of vengeance, surely the cries of desolate mothers will allow no sleep to those who provoke such massacres.  They will haunt them to the grave, and rise behind them to the foot of that throne where the great Judge of all awaits them.

[She buries her face in her hands.

Cossack.  It is my mother!  I recognize her last words. (He springs towards her.) It is I, Mother, it is I! (She raises her head.) What do I see?  A stranger! and it is an Englishwoman!

Highlander (raising the daughter’s veil).  Good heavens!  She is a German.