FREDERICK. When I left you five years ago, you gave me every thing you could afford, and all you thought would be necessary for me. But one trifle you forgot, which was, the certificate of my birth from the church-book.—You know in this country there is nothing to be done without it. At the time of parting from you, I little thought it could be of that consequence to me which I have since found it would have been. Once I became tired of a soldier’s life, and in the hope I should obtain my discharge, offered myself to a master to learn a profession; but his question was, “Where is your certificate from the church-book of the parish in which you were born?” It vexed me that I had not it to produce, for my comrades laughed at my disappointment. My captain behaved kinder, for he gave me leave to come home to fetch it—and you see, mother, here I am. [_During his speech_ Agatha _is confused and agitated._ AGATHA. So, you are come for the purpose of fetching your certificate from the church-book. FREDERICK. Yes, mother. AGATHA. Oh! oh! FREDERICK. What is the matter? [_She bursts into tears._] For heaven’s sake, mother, tell me what’s the matter? AGATHA. You have no certificate. FREDERICK. No! AGATHA. No.—The laws of Germany excluded you from being registered at your birth—for—you are a natural son! FREDERICK. [_starts—after a pause_]. So!—And who is my father? AGATHA. Oh Frederick, your wild looks are daggers to my heart. Another time. FREDERICK. [_endeavouring to conceal his emotion_]. No, no—I am still your son—and you are still my mother. Only tell me, who is my father? AGATHA. When we parted five years ago, you were too young to be intrusted with a secret of so much importance.—But the time is come when I can, in confidence, open my heart, and unload that burthen with which it has been long oppressed. And yet, to reveal my errors to my child, and sue for his mild judgment on my conduct—— FREDERICK. You have nothing to sue for; only explain this mystery. AGATHA. I will, I will. But—my tongue is locked with remorse and shame. You must not look at me. FREDERICK. Not look at you! Cursed be that son who could find his mother guilty, although the world should call her so.