We scorn it as we do board-wages: then

Had one of our folks done it, he would not
Have been so poor a spirit as to hazard

His neck for one rouleau, but have swoop'd all;
Also the cabinet, if portable.

IDEN. There is some sense in that—

FRITZ.

No, Sir, be sure

'Twas none of our corps; but some petty, trivial
Picker and stealer, without art or genius.

The only question is-Who else could have
Access, save the Hungarian and yourself?

IDEN. You don't mean me?

FRITZ.

Your talents

IDEN.

No, Sir; I honour more

And my principles, I hope..

FRITZ. Of course. But to the point: What's to

be done?

IDEN. Nothing-but there's a good deal to be said. We'll offer a reward; move heaven and earth,

And the police (though there's none nearer than
Frankfort); post notices in manuscript

(For we've no printer); and set by my clerk
To read them (for few can, save he and I).
We'll send out vilains to strip beggars, and

Search empty pockets; also, to arrest

All gipsies, and ill-clothed and sallow people.
Prisoners we'll have at least, if not the culprit;
And for the baron's gold-if 'tis not found,
At least he shall have the full satisfaction
Of melting twice its substance in the raising
The ghost of this rouleau. Here's alchymy
your lord's losses!

For

FRITZ.

IDEN. Where?

He hath found a better.

FRITZ.

In a most immense inheritance.

The late Count Siegendorf, his distant kinsman, Is dead near Prague, in his castle, and my lord

Is on his way to take possession.

IDEN.

No heir?

Was there

FRITZ. Oh, yes; but he has disappear'd
Long from the world's eye, and perhaps the world.
A prodigal son, beneath his father's ban

For the last twenty years; for whom his sire
Refused to kill the fatted calf; and, therefore,
If living, he must chew the husks still. But
The baron would find means to silence him,
Were he to re-appear: he's politic,

And has much influence with a certain court.

IDEN. He's fortunate.

FRITZ.

"Tis true, there is a grandson,

Whom the late count reclaim'd from his son's hands,

And educated as his heir; but then

His birth is doubtful.

IDEN.

FRITZ.

How so?

His sire made

A left-hand, love, imprudent sort of marriage,
With an Italian exile's dark-eyed daughter:
Noble, they say, too; but no match for such
A house as Siegendorf's. The grandsire ill
Could brook the alliance; and could ne'er be brought
To see the parents, though he took the son.

IDEN. If he's a lad of metal, he may yet

Dispute your claim, and weave a web that may
Puzzle your baron to unravel.

For mettle, he has quite enough: they say,

He forms a happy mixture of his sire

And grandsire's qualities,-impetuous as

The former, and deep as the latter; but
The strangest is, that he too disappear'd
Some months ago.

IDEN.

The devil he did!

FRITZ.

Why, yes:

It must have been at his suggestion, at

An hour so critical as was the eve

Of the old man's death, whose heart was broken by it.

IDEN. Was there no cause assign'd?

FRITZ.

Plenty, no doubt,
And none perhaps the true one. Some averr'd
It was to seek his parents; some because
The old man held his spirit in so strictly
(But that could scarce be, for he doted on him);
A third believed he wish'd to serve in war,

But peace being made soon after his departure,
He might have since return'd, were that the motive;

A fourth set charitably have surmised,

As there was something strange and mystic in him, That in the wild exuberance of his nature,

He had join'd the black bands, who lay waste Lusatia,

The mountains of Bohemia and Silesia,

Since the last years of war had dwindled into
A kind of general condottiero system

Of bandit warfare; each troop with its chief,
And all against mankind.

IDEN.

That cannot be.

A young heir, bred to wealth and luxury,

To risk his life and honours with disbanded

Soldiers and desperadoes!

FRITZ.

Heaven best knows!

But there are human natures so allied

Unto the savage love of enterprize,

That they will seek for peril as a pleasure.
I've heard that nothing can reclaim your Indian,
Or tame the tiger, though their infancy
Were fed on milk and honey. After all,
Your Wallenstein, your Tilly and Gustavus,
Your Bannier, and your Torstenson and Weimar,
Were but the same thing upon a grand scale;
And now that they are gone, and peace proclaim'd,
They who would follow the same pastime must
Pursue it on their own account. Here comes

The baron, and the Saxon stranger, who

Was his chief aid in yesterday's escape,
But did not leave the cottage by the Oder
Until this morning.

STRAL.

Enter STRALENHEIM and ULRIC.

Since you have refused

All compensation, gentle stranger, save