OLD MOOR (bursting into tears). Oh my child!
CHARLES. What! you weep for him? In sight of this dungeon?
OLD MOOR. Mercy! oh mercy! (Wringing his hands violently.) Now—now my son is brought to judgment!
CHARLES (starting). Which son?
OLD MOOR. Ha! what means that question?
CHARLES. Nothing! nothing!
OLD MOOR. Art thou come to make a mockery of my grief?
CHARLES. Treacherous conscience! Take no heed of my words!
OLD MOOR. Yes, I persecuted a son, and a son persecutes me in return. It is the finger of God. Oh my Charles! my Charles! If thou dost hover around me in the realms of peace, forgive me! oh forgive me!
CHARLES (hastily). He forgives you! (Checking himself.) If he is worthy to be called your son, he must forgive you!