FURST.
And thus their crime has yielded them no fruits.
Revenge is barren. Of itself it makes
The dreadful food it feeds on; its delight
Is murder—its satiety despair.
STAUFFACHER.
The assassins reap no profit by their crime;
But we shall pluck with unpolluted hands
The teeming fruits of their most bloody deed,
For we are ransomed from our heaviest fear;
The direst foe of liberty has fallen,
And, 'tis reported, that the crown will pass
From Hapsburg's house into another line.
The empire is determined to assert
Its old prerogative of choice, I hear.
FURST and several others.
Has any one been named to you?
STAUFFACHER.
The Count
Of Luxembourg is widely named already.
FURST.
'Tis well we stood so stanchly by the empire!
Now we may hope for justice, and with cause.
STAUFFACHER.
The emperor will need some valiant friends,
And he will shelter us from Austria's vengeance.
[The peasantry embrace. Enter SACRIST, with imperial messenger.
SACRIST.
Here are the worthy chiefs of Switzerland!
ROSSELMANN and several others.
Sacrist, what news?
SACRISTAN.
A courier brings this letter.