Gott. Oh, my poor love—my gentle angel-heart!
Oh, death, kind death—that thou canst surely strike,
Hadst thou no pity on this poor fair flower?
Oh, death, kind death,
Would Heaven’s mercy thou hadst been at hand,
To fold my darling in thy sheltering wings!
(With sudden fury.) His name? Quick! quick! His name!
Gret. (wildly). Nay, ask me not!
In this have mercy!
Gott. (drawing his sword). Quick—his name, I say!