[Exit hastily by a side door.

WORM (alarmed). What means this? Should the simpleton perchance-- confusion! Surely she will not--I must follow her. I am answerable for her life. (As he is going towards the door, LOUISA returns, wrapped in a cloak.)

LOUISA. Your pardon, Mr. Secretary, I must lock the door.

WORM. Whither in such haste?

LOUISA (pa.s.sing him). To the duke.

WORM (alarmed, detains her). How? Whither?

LOUISA. To the duke. Do you not hear? Even to that very duke whose will is to decide upon my father's life or death. Yet no?--'tis not his will that decides, but the will of wicked men who surround his throne.

He lends naught to this process, save the shadow of his majesty, and his royal signature.

WORM (with a burst of laughter). To the duke!

LOUISA. I know the meaning of that sneering laugh--you would tell me that I shall find no compa.s.sion there. But though I may meet (G.o.d preserve me!) with nothing but scorn--scorn at my sorrows--yet will I to the duke. I have been told that the great never know what misery is; that they fly from the knowledge of it. But I will teach the duke what misery is; I will paint to him, in all the writhing agonies of death, what misery is; I will cry aloud in wailings that shall creep through the very marrow of his bones, what misery is; and, while at my picture his hairs shall stand on end like quills upon the porcupine, will I shriek into his affrighted ear, that in the hour of death the sinews of these mighty G.o.ds of earth shall shrivel and shrink, and that at the day of judgment beggars and kings shall be weighed together in the same balance (Going.)

WORM (ironically). By all means go to the duke! You can really do nothing more prudent; I advise you heartily to the step. Only go, and I give you my word that the duke will grant your suit.

LOUISA (stopping suddenly). What said you? Do you yourself advise the step? (Returns hastily). What am I about to do? Something wicked surely, since this man approves it--how know you that the prince will grant my suit?

WORM. Because he will not have to grant it unrewarded.

LOUISA. Not unrewarded? And what price does he set on his humanity?

WORM. The person of the fair suppliant will be payment enough!

LOUISA (stopping for a moment in mute dismay--in a feeble voice).

Almighty G.o.d!

WORM. And I trust that you will not think your father's life over-valued when 'tis purchased at so gracious a price.

LOUISA (with great indignation). True, oh! true! The great are entrenched from truth behind their own vices, safely as behind the swords of cherubim. The Almighty protect thee, father! Your child can die-- but not sin for thee.

WORM. This will be agreeable news for the poor disconsolate old man.

"My Louisa," says he, "has bowed me down to the earth; but my Louisa will raise me up again." I hasten to him with your answer. (Affects to be about to depart.)

LOUISA (flies after him and holds him back). Stay! stay! one moment's patience! How nimble this Satan is, when his business is to drive humanity distracted! I have bowed him to the earth! I must raise him up again! Speak to me! Counsel me! What can I, what must I do?

WORM. There is but one means of saving him!

LOUISA. What is that means?

WORM. And your father approves of it----

LOUISA. My father? Oh! name that means.

WORM. It is easy for you to execute.

LOUISA. I know of nothing harder than infamy!

WORM. Suppose you were to release the major from his engagement?

LOUISA. Release him! Do you mock me? Do you call that a choice to which force compelled me?

WORM. You mistake me, dear girl! The major must resign you willingly, and be the first to retract his engagement.

LOUISA. That he will never do.

WORM. So it appears. Should we, do you think, have had recourse to you were it not that you alone are able to help us?

LOUISA. I cannot compel him to hate me.

WORM. We will try! Be seated.

LOUISA (drawing back). Man! What is brooding in thy artful brain?

WORM. Be seated. Here are paper, pens, and ink. Write what I dictate.

LOUISA (sitting down in the greatest uneasiness). What must I write? To whom must I write?

WORM. To your father's executioner.

LOUISA. Ah! How well thou knowest to torture souls to thy purpose.

(Takes a pen.)

WORM (dictating to her). "My dear Sir (LOUISA writes with a trembling hand,) three days, three insupportable days, have already pa.s.sed--already pa.s.sed--since last we met."

LOUISA (starts, and lays down her pen). To whom is the letter?

WORM. To your father's executioner.

LOUISA. Oh! my G.o.d!

WORM. "But for this you must blame the major--the major--who watches me all day with the vigilance of an Argus."

LOUISA (starting up). Villany! Villany beyond all precedent! To whom is the letter?

WORM. To your father's executioner.

LOUISA (paces to and fro, wringing her hands). No, no, no! This is tyrannical! Oh Heaven! If mortals provoke thee, punish them like mortals; but wherefore must I be placed between two precipices?

Wherefore am I hurled by turns from death to infamy, from infamy to death? Wherefore is my neck made the footstool of this blood-sucking fiend? No; do what thou wilt, I will never write that!

WORM (seizing his hat). As you please, miss! It rests entirely on your own pleasure!

LOUISA. Pleasure, say'st thou? On my own pleasure? Go, barbarian!

Suspend some unfortunate over the pit of h.e.l.l; then make your demands, and ask your victim if it be his pleasure to grant your request! Oh!

Thou knowest but too well that the bonds of nature bind our hearts as firmly as chains! But all is now alike indifferent. Dictate! I cease to think! Artifices of h.e.l.l, I yield to ye! (She resumes her seat at the table.)