GESSLER.
Why do you cross me on the public road?
Stand back, I say.
ARMGART.
My husband lies in prison;
My wretched orphans cry for bread. Have pity,
Pity, my lord, upon our sore distress!
HARRAS.
Who are you? and your husband, what is he?
ARMGART.
A poor wild hay-man of the Rigiberg,
Kind sir, who on the brow of the abyss,
Mows the unowner'd grass from craggy shelves,
To which the very cattle dare not climb.
HARRAS (to GESSLER).
By Heaven! a sad and pitiable life!
I pray you set the wretched fellow free.
How great soever may be his offence,
His horrid trade is punishment enough.