_The hollow way at Küssnacht. You descend from behind amid rocks; and travellers, before appearing on the scene, are seen from the height above. Rocks encircle the whole space; on one of the foremost is a projecting crag overgrown with brushwood._ TELL [_enters with his bow_]. Here through the hollow way he'll pass; there is No other road to Küssnacht: here I'll do it! The opportunity is good; the bushes Of alder there will hide me; from that point My arrow hits him; the strait pass prevents Pursuit. Now, Gessler, balance thy account With Heaven! Thou must be gone: thy sand is run. Remote and harmless I have liv'd; my bow Ne'er bent save on the wild beast of the forest; My thoughts were free of murder. Thou hast scar'd me From my peace; to fell asp-poison hast thou Changed the milk of kindly temper in me; Thou hast accustom'd me to horrors. Gessler! The archer who could aim at his boy's head Can send an arrow to his enemy's heart. Poor little boys! My kind true wife! I will Protect them from thee, Landvogt! When I drew That bowstring, and my hand was quiv'ring, And with devilish joy thou mad'st me point it At the child, and I in fainting anguish Entreated thee in vain; then with a grim Irrevocable oath, deep in my soul, I vow'd to God in Heav'n, that the _next_ aim I took should be thy heart. The vow I made In that despairing moment's agony Became a holy debt; and I will pay it. Thou art my master, and my Kaiser's Vogt; Yet would the Kaiser not have suffer'd thee To do as thou hast done. He sent thee hither To judge us; rigorously, for he is angry; But not to glut thy savage appetite With murder, and thyself be safe, among us: There is a God to punish them that wrong us. Come forth, thou bringer once of bitter sorrow, My precious jewel now, my trusty yew! A mark I'll set thee, which the cry of woe Could never penetrate: to _thee_ it shall not Be impenetrable. And, good bowstring! Which so oft in sport hast serv'd me truly, Forsake me not in this last awful earnest; Yet once hold fast, thou faithful cord; thou oft For me hast wing'd the biting arrow; Now send it sure and piercing, now or never! Fail this, there is no second in my quiver. [_Travellers cross the scene._ Here let me sit on this stone bench, set up For brief rest to the wayfarer; for here There is no home. Each pushes on quick, transient, Regarding not the other or his sorrows. Here goes the anxious merchant, and the light Unmoneyed pilgrim; the pale pious monk, The gloomy robber, and the mirthful showman; The carrier with his heavy-laden horse, Who comes from far-off lands; for every road Will lead one to the end o' th' World. They pass; each hastening forward on his path, Pursuing his own business: mine is death! [_Sits down._