_Gott._ Oh, earth and heaven! Are there no bounds to human devil-hood? Are heaven’s weapons sheathed? Is honour dead? Has innocence cast off her majesty? (_Unhooks his scabbard and breaks it._) Away! away! I have no need of thee! Good, trusty sword, henceforth sheathless thou Until I home thee to the very hilt In the foul slough of his accursed heart-- His heart, and then--mine own! ACT IV. SCENE.--_Room in MARTHA’S cottage; a couch in recess of window. Night. A small lamp burning on pedestal table at head of couch._ _Enter LISA from without, meeting MARTHA._ _Mar._ (_anxiously_). Well, hast thou seen the holy Anselm? _Lisa._ Yes; Yet but one moment I had been too late. Old Karl is dying, and the holy man, Being called in haste to minister to him, Was on the eve of starting as I came. _Mar._ (_testily_). Old Karl! Must he needs die this very night! But thou didst tell the holy man that Gretchen Was sorely ill, and stood in urgent need Of his most comfortable ministry? _Lisa._ Yes, yes. Alas that it should be the truth! He promised he would come without delay. How fares our loved one? Is her mind at rest? _Mar._ Alas, I fear that death draws nigh apace! There is a strange look in her wondering eyes That is not of this world--a bright calm light, As though she saw far, far beyond the grave. When she is taken, Heaven help the poor! There’s not an ailing soul for miles around Who does not bless her ministering hand! _Lisa._ If the old tale be true, when such as she Are taken hence to their appointed heaven, Good angels come to earth to take their place And finish their good works; and so the poor Who looked to them are clothed and comforted, The hungry fed, the sick and dying healed. _Mar._ Her work is all her own, and would be so Though Heaven sent the best of all good angels! [_GRETCHEN appears at door, dressed in white. She is pale and weak._ _Gret._ Lisa, thy hand! _Lisa._ Gretchen, what dost thou here? _Gret._ My heart is sad. I cannot rest in peace. _Mar._ But thou shouldst not have left thy bed, dear child. The night is cold. _Gret._ Alas, it matters little! The end is near--the tale is nearly told.