MELCH.
The arm, my lord, that tames the stubborn earth,
And makes its bosom blossom with increase,
Can also shield its owner's breast at need.
RUD.
Then you shall shield my breast, and I will yours,
Thus each be strengthen'd by the other's strength.
Yet wherefore talk ye, while our native land
Is still to alien tyranny a prey?
First let us sweep the foemen from the soil,
Then reconcile our difference in peace!
[After a moment's pause.]
How! You are silent! Not a word for me?
And have I yet no title to your trust?—
Then must I force my way, despite your will,
Into the League you secretly have form'd.
You've held a Diet on the Rootli,—I
Know this,—know all that was transacted there;
And though not trusted with your secret, I
Have kept it closely like a sacred pledge.
Trust me—I never was my country's foe,
Nor would I ever have against you stood!
Yet you did wrong—to put your rising off.
Time presses! We must strike, and swiftly too!
Already Tell is lost through your delay.
STAUFF.
We swore that we should wait till Christmastide.
RUD.
I was not there,—I did not take the oath.
If you delay, I will not!
MELCH.
What! You would—
RUD.
I count me now among the country's chiefs,
And my first duty is to guard your rights.
FURST.
Your nearest and holiest duty is
Within the earth to lay these dear remains.
RUD.
When we have set the country free, we'll place
Our fresh victorious wreaths upon his bier.
Oh, my dear friends, 'tis not your cause alone!—
I with the tyrants have a cause to fight,
That more concerns myself. My Bertha's gone,
Has disappear'd,—- been carried off by stealth,—
Stolen from amongst us by their ruffian hands!