AMELIA (seizes his hand). Hark!—hark! his son is in his dreams.
OLD M. Are you there? Are you really there! Alas! how miserable you seem! Fix not on me that mournful look! I am wretched enough.
AMELIA (awakens him abruptly). Look up, dear old man! 'Twas but a dream. Collect yourself!
OLD M. (half awake). Was he not there? Did I not press his hands? Cruel Francis! wilt thou tear him even from my dreams?
AMELIA (aside). Ha! mark that, Amelia!
OLD M. (rousing himself). Where is he? Where? Where am I? You here, Amelia?
AMELIA. How do you find yourself? You have had a refreshing slumber.
OLD M. I was dreaming about my son. Why did I not dream on? Perhaps I might have obtained forgiveness from his lips.
AMELIA. Angels bear no resentment—he forgives you. (Seizes his hand sorrowfully.) Father of my Charles! I, too, forgive you.
OLD M. No, no, my child! That death-like paleness of thy cheek is the father's condemnation. Poor girl! I have robbed thee of the happiness of thy youth. Oh, do not curse me!