My father hates thee, tracks thy hunted steps—
(Relaxing from fear into tenderness, and falling into his arms.)
Adelmar, art thou here?—and was it thou?
Adel. Yes; Adelmar, the unowned, the wanderer.
The stranger—almost to himself unknown;
He, o’er whom midnight murder darkly watches,
He, who on unseen daggers plants his steps,
And tramples them to clasp thee:—Yes, I follow’d thee
O’er the dark mountains—through the night I follow’d;—
The spirits of the tempest raised their arms