TELL.
What, I!
Level my crossbow at the darling head
Of mine own child? No—rather let me die!
GESSL.
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.
GESSL.
How now, Tell, on a sudden so discreet?
I had been told thou wert a visionary,—
A wanderer from the paths of common men.
Thou lov'st the marvellous. So have I now
Cull'd out for thee a task of special daring.
Another man might pause and hesitate;—
Thou dashest at it, heart and soul, at once.
BERTH.
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.
GESSL.
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 hit his man.
Now, archer, to your task, and look you miss not!
HAR.
Heavens! this grows serious—down, boy, on your knees,
And beg the governor to spare your life.
FURST (aside to Melchthal, who can scarcely restrain his indignation).
Command yourself,—be calm, I beg of you!