WALLENSTEIN, ILLO, COUNTESS, DUCHESS, THEKLA WALLENST. All quiet in the camp? ILLO. It is all quiet. WALLENST. In a few hours may couriers come from Prague With tidings that this capital is ours. Then we may drop the mask, and to the troops Assembled in this town make known the measure And its result together. In such cases Example does the whole. Whoever is foremost Still leads the herd. An imitative creature Is man. The troops at Prague conceive no other Than that the Pilsen army has gone through The forms of homage to us; and in Pilsen They shall swear fealty to us, because The example has been given them by Prague. Butler, you tell me, has declared himself? ILLO. At his own bidding, unsolicited, He came to offer you himself and regiment. WALLENST. I find we must not give implicit credence To every warning voice that makes itself Be listen'd to in the heart. To hold us back, Oft does the lying Spirit counterfeit The voice of Truth and inward Revelation, Scattering false oracles. And thus have I To entreat forgiveness, for that secretly I've wrong'd this honorable, gallant man, This Butler: for a feeling, of the which I am not master (_fear_ I would not call it), Creeps o'er me instantly, with sense of shuddering At his approach, and stops love's joyous motion. And this same man, against whom I am warn'd, This honest man is he, who reaches to me The first pledge of my fortune. ILLO. And doubt not That his example will win over to you The best men in the army. WALLENSTEIN. Go and send Isolani hither. Send him immediately; He is under recent obligations to me: With him will I commence the trial. Go. [_Exit_ ILLO.] WALLENSTEIN (_turns himself round to the females_). Lo, there the mother with the darling daughter For once we'll have an interval of rest--Come! my heart yearns to live a cloudless hour In the beloved circle of my family. COUNTESS. 'Tis long since we've been thus together, brother. WALLENSTEIN (_to the_ COUNTESS _aside_). Can she sustain the news? Is she prepared? COUNTESS. Not yet. WALLENST. Come here, my sweet girl! Seat thee by me. For there is a good spirit on thy lips. Thy mother praised to me thy ready skill; She says a voice of melody dwells in thee, Which doth enchant the soul. Now such a voice Will drive away from me the evil demon That beats his black wings close above my head. DUCHESS. Where is thy lute, my daughter? Let thy father Hear some small trial of thy skill. THEKLA. My mother! I-- DUCHESS. Trembling? Come, collect thyself. Go, cheer father. THEKLA. O my mother! I--I cannot. COUNTESS. How, what is that, niece? THEKLA (_to the_ COUNTESS). O spare me--sing--now--in this sore anxiety, Of the o'erburthen'd soul--to sing to _him_, Who is thrusting, even now, my mother headlong Into her grave. DUCHESS.