And is that André! Oh, how chang'd! Alas!
Where is that martial fire, that generous warmth,
Which glow'd his manly countenance throughout,
And gave to every look, to every act,
The tone of high chivalrous animation?—
André, my friend! look up.
André.
Who calls me friend?
Bland.
Young Arthur Bland.
André [rising].
That name sounds like a friend's.
[With emotion.
Bland [embracing him].
O André!—
I have but now arrived from the south—
Nor heard—till now—of this—I cannot speak.
Is this a place?—Oh, thus to find my friend!