TELL.
What monstrous thing, my lord, is this you ask?
That I, from the head of mine own child!—No, no!
It cannot be, kind sir, you meant not that—
God in His grace forbid! You could not ask
A father seriously to do that thing!
GESSLER.
Thou art to shoot an apple from his head!
I do desire—command it so.
TELL.
What, I!
Level my crossbow at the darling head
Of mine own child? No—rather let me die!
GESSLER.
Or thou must shoot, or with thee dies the boy.
TELL.
Shall I become the murderer of my child!
You have no children, sir—you do not know
The tender throbbings of a father's heart.
GESSLER.
How now, Tell, so discreet upon a sudden
I had been told thou wert a visionary,—
A wanderer from the paths of common men.
Thou lovest the marvellous. So have I now
Culled out for thee a task of special daring.
Another man might pause and hesitate;
Thou dashest at it, heart and soul, at once.
BERTHA.
Oh, do not jest, my lord, with these poor souls!
See, how they tremble, and how pale they look,
So little used are they to hear thee jest.
GESSLER.
Who tells thee that I jest?
[Grasping a branch above his head.
Here is the apple.
Room there, I say! And let him take his distance—
Just eighty paces-as the custom is
Not an inch more or less! It was his boast,
That at a hundred he could bit his man.
Now, archer, to your task, and look you miss not!