FRANCIS. He is gone. What avail these tardy lamentations? (with a satanic sneer.) It is easier to murder than to restore to life. You will never bring him back from his grave. OLD Moon. Never, never, never bring him back from the grave! Gone! lost for ever! And you it was that beguiled my heart to curse him.-- you--you--Give me back my son! FRANCIS. Rouse not my fury, lest I forsake you even in the hour of death! OLD MOOR. Monster! inhuman monster! Restore my son to me. (Starts from the chair and attempts to catch FRANCIS by the throat, who flings him back.) FRANCIS. Feeble old dotard I would you dare? Die! despair! [Exit.] OLD MOOR. May the thunder of a thousand curses light upon thee! thou hast robbed me of my son. (Throwing himself about in his chair full of despair). Alas! alas! to despair and yet not die. They fly, they forsake me in death; my guardian angels fly from me; all the saints withdraw from the hoary murderer. Oh, misery! will no one support this head, no one release this struggling soul? No son, no daughter, no friend, not one human being--will no one? Alone--forsaken. Woe, woe! To despair, yet not to die! Enter AMELIA, her eyes red with weeping. OLD MOOR. Amelia! messenger of heaven! Art thou come to release my soul? AMELIA (in a gentle tone). You have lost a noble son. OLD MOOR. Murdered him, you mean. With the weight of this impeachment I shall present myself before the judgment-seat of God. AMELIA. Not so, old man! Our heavenly Father has taken him to himself. We should have been too happy in this world. Above, above, beyond the stars, we shall meet again. OLD MOOR. Meet again! Meet again! Oh! it will pierce my soul like a Sword--should I, a saint, meet him among the saints. In the midst of heaven the horrors of hell will strike through me! The remembrance of that deed will crush me in the presence of the Eternal: I have murdered my son! AMELIA. Oh, his smiles will chase away the bitter remembrance from your soul! Cheer up, dear father! I am quite cheerful. Has he not already sung the name of Amelia to listening angels on seraphic harps, and has not heaven's choir sweetly echoed it? Was not his last sigh, Amelia? And will not Amelia be his first accent of joy? OLD MOOR. Heavenly consolation flows from your lips! He will smile upon me, you say? He will forgive me? You must stay with my beloved of my Charles, when I die. AMELIA. To die is to fly to his arms. Oh, how happy and enviable is your lot! Would that my bones were decayed!--that my hairs were gray! Woe upon the vigor of youth! Welcome, decrepid age, nearer to heaven and my Charles! Enter FRANCIS. OLD MOOR. Come near, my son! Forgive me if I spoke too harshly to you just now! I forgive you all. I wish to yield up my spirit in peace. FRANCIS. Have you done weeping for your son? For aught that I see you had but one. OLD MOOR. Jacob had twelve sons, but for his Joseph he wept tears of blood.