Bert. I do indeed, the storm is terrible, it seems as if heaven’s own voice were clamoring to forbid the deed.
Thunder.
Long. This tumult of the night assists our enterprise; its thunders will drown your victim’s dying groan. Where have you placed the bravoes?
Bert. Hard by—just where the horse-road sinks into a hollow dell, and over-spreading branches almost choke the pass, there we may rush upon the wretched youth securely, and there our poniards—
Long. Hush!—a footstep!—who passes there?
Enter 1st Bravo.
1st. Br. Sanguine!
Long. Wherefore are you here, and parted from your fellow?
1st. Br. I left him lurking in the hollow, while I sought you out to ask advice. Just now, a horse without a rider, burst furiously through the thicket where we lay; the lightning flashed brightly at the time, and I plainly marked the steed to be the very same young Florian rode, when we dogged him from the last inn, at sunset.
Bert. (involuntarily) merciful God! then thou hast preserved him.