Egmont condemned!--what tribunal has the right to summon him?--And they dare to condemn him!--Does the king condemn him, or the duke? And the Regent withdraws herself! Orange hesitates, and all his friends! -- Is this the world, of whose fickleness and treachery I have heard so much, and as yet experienced nothing? Is this the world?--Who could be so base as to hear malice against one so dear? Could villainy itself be audacious enough to overwhelm with sudden destruction the object of a nation's homage? Yet so it is--it is-O Egmont, I held thee safe before God and man, safe as in my arms! What was I to thee. Thou hast called me thine, my whole being was devoted to thee. What am I now? In vain I stretch out my hand to the toils that environ thee. Thou helpless and I free!--Here is the key that unlocks my chamber door. My going out and my coming in, depend upon my own caprice; yet, alas; to aid thee I am powerless!--Oh, bind me that I may not despair; hurl me into the deepest dungeon, that I may dash my head against the damp walls, groan for freedom, and dream how I would rescue him if fetters did not hold me bound.--Now I am free, and in freedom lies the anguish of impotence.--Conscious of my own existence, yet unable to stir a limb in his behalf, alas! even this insignificant portion of thy being, thy Clara, is, like thee, a captive, and, separated from thee, consumes her expiring energies in the agonies of death.--I hear a stealthy step,--a cough--Brackenburg,--'tis he!--Kind, unhappy man, thy destiny remains ever the same; thy love opens to thee the door at night, alas! to what a doleful meeting. (Enter Brackenburg.) Thou com'st so pale, so terrified! Brackenburg! What is it? Brackenburg. I have sought thee through perils and circuitous paths. The principal streets are occupied with troops;--through lanes and by-ways have I stolen to thee! Clara. Tell me, how is it? Brackenburg (seating himself). O Clara, let me weep. I loved him not. He was the rich man who lured to better a pasture the poor man's solitary lamb. I have never cursed him, God has created me with a true and tender heart. My life was consumed in a nguish, and each day I hoped would end my misery. Clara. Let that be forgotten, Brackenburg! Forget thyself. Speak to me of him! Is it true? Is he condemned? Brackenburg. He is! I know it. Clara. And still lives? Brackenburg. Yes, he still lives. Clara. How canst thou be sure of that? Tyranny murders the hero in the night! His blood flows concealed from every eye. The people stunned and bewildered, lie buried in sleep, dream of deliverance, dream of the fulfilment of their impotent wishes, while, indignant at our supineness, his spirit abandons the world. He is no more! Deceive me not; deceive not thyself! Brackenburg. No,--he lives! and the Spaniards, alas, are preparing for the