Oh! haste not so! Nay, stop; first tell me--
You have heard already, Tomorrow to the Swedes belongs. This night Alone is ours. They make good expedition, But we will make still greater. Fare you well.
Ah! your looks tell me nothing good. Nay, Butler, I pray you, promise me!
The sun has set; A fateful evening doth descend upon us, And brings on their long night! Their evil stars Deliver them unarm'd into our hands, And from their drunken dream of golden fortunes The dagger at their heart shall rouse them. Well, The Duke was ever a great calculator; His fellow-men were figures on his chess-board, To move and station, as his game required. Other men's honor, dignity, good name, Did he shift like pawns, and make no conscience of; Still calculating, calculating still; And yet at last his calculation proves Erroneous; the whole game is lost; and lo! His own life will be found among the forfeits.
O think not of his errors now! remember His greatness, his munificence; think on all The lovely features of his character, On all the noble exploits of his life, And let them, like an angel's arm, unseen, Arrest the lifted sword.
It is too late. I suffer not myself to feel compassion; Dark thoughts and bloody are my _duty_ now:
Gordon! 'tis not my hatred (I pretend not To love the Duke, and have no cause to love him), Yet 'tis not now my hatred that impels me To be his murderer. 'Tis his evil fate. Hostile concurrences of many events Control and subjugate me to the office. In vain the human being meditates Free action. He is but the wire-work'd[31] puppet Of the blind Power, which out of its own choice Creates for him a dread necessity. What too would it avail him, if there were A something pleading for him in my heart-- Still I must kill him.
If your heart speak to you, Follow its impulse. 'Tis the voice of God. Think you your fortunes will grow prosperous Bedew'd with blood--his blood? Believe it not!
You know not. Ask not! Wherefore should it happen That the Swedes gain'd the victory, and hasten With such forced marches hitherward? Fain would I Have given him to the Emperor's mercy. Gordon! I do not wish his blood--But I must ransom The honor of my word--it lies in pledge-- And he must die, or--