Stran. It is.
Emma. My husband and my son
Are in the tyrant's power! There's worse than that!
What's that is news to harrow parents' breasts.
The which the thought to only tell, 'twould seem,
Drives back the blood to thine?—Thy news, I say!
Wouldst thou be merciful, this is not mercy!
Wast thou the mark, friend, of the bowman's aim.
Wouldst thou not hare the fatal arrow speed,
Rather than watch it hanging in the string?
Thou'lt drive me mad! Let fly at once!
Melch. Thy news from Altorf, friend, whatever it is!
Stran. To save himself and child from certain death,
Tell is to hit an apple, to be placed
Upon the stripling's head.
Melch. My child! my child!
Speak to me! Stranger, hast thou killed her?
Emma. No!
No`, father'. I'm the wife of William Tell;
Oh, but to be a man!—to have an arm
To fit a heart swelling with the sense of wrong!
Unnatural—insufferable wrong!
When makes the tyrant trial of his skill?
Stran. To-morrow.
Emma. Spirit of the lake and hill,
Inspire thy daughter! On the head of him
Who makes his pastime of a mother's pangs,
Launch down thy vengeance by a mother's hand.
Know'st the signal when the hills shall rise'? (To Melchtal.)
Melch. Are they to rise'?
Emma. I see thou knowest naught.