Grenadier. Brigands! That is to say, my unfortunate self, and other labourers like you and me. After this, well might we be made to sing about "Vile blood soaking our furrows!" I see now this "vile blood" was yours, my friend, and that of brave men like you. Cursed be those who forced us to fight together! Hussar. Cursed be the contrivers of War! War (_advancing_). Shame on you, degraded warriors! Your very wives would disown you. (_The_ Dead _gaze fixedly._) You are silent! What have you to answer? Peace. The Dead do not reply. (_Points with her hand to the stage entrance._) These shall answer for them. _Enter_ Four Veiled Women. [_One of the_ Veiled Women _slowly advances. When in front of the stage she lifts her veil, and is seen by the audience. The others afterwards do the same._ First Woman. Oh, my brother! where are you now? If you are ill, who nurses you? If you are wounded, who watches over you? If you are a prisoner, who comforts you? If you are dead--Alas! every night I go to rest weeping, because I have had no news of you; and every morning I awake dreading to receive it. We were so happy! We lived so comfortably together! and now I sit at our little table, with your empty place before me, and cannot eat for looking at it. Yet I made you promise to come back when we said good-bye. Ah! unkind! Why are you so long in fulfilling your promise? [_She closes her veil and crosses to one side of the stage. The others afterwards do the same._ Grenadier. It is my sister, friends. She is repeating the words of our last adieu. Second Woman. Oh, my father! why have you left your child? Alas! when you went away I played--poor fool!--with your brilliant uniform. (Dark livery of death, would that I had never seen thee!) I said I should be proud of you when you came back to me, having killed a great many of your enemies. Child that I was to speak of killing, not knowing what it meant! And now, when will you return? What have they done with you, dear Father? What has become of that revered head, which my lips never approached but with respect? Perhaps at this very moment it is dragged, all stained and livid, through the dust or in the mud. Oh, God! if my prayers may still avail for him, withdraw him speedily from those frightful conflicts, where every blow falls upon a father, a son, a brother, or a husband. Pity the many tears that flow for every drop of blood! Highlander. It is my daughter! I yet hear the last farewell her innocent mouth sent after me.