CHARLES. Speak! Who art thou? What brought thee here? Speak! HERMANN. Mercy, mercy! gracious sir! Hear but one word before you kill me. CHARLES (drawing his sword). What am I to hear? HERMANN. 'Tis true, he forbade me at the peril of my life--but I could not help it--I dare not do otherwise--a God in heaven--your own venerable father there--pity for him overcame me. Kill me, if you will! CHARLES. There's some mystery here--Out with it! Speak! I must know all. VOICE (from the castle). Woe! woe! Is it you, Hermann, that are speaking? To whom are you speaking, Hermann? CHARLES. Some one else down there? What is the meaning of all this? (Runs towards the castle.) It is some prisoner whom mankind have cast off! I will loosen his chains. Voice! Speak! Where is the door? HERMANN. Oh, have mercy, sir--seek no further, I entreat--for mercy's sake desist! (He stops his way.) CHARLES. Locks, bolts, and bars, away! It must come out. Now, for the first time, come to my aid, thief-craft! (He opens the grated iron door with, housebreaking tools. An OLD MAN, reduced to a skeleton, comes up from below.) THE OLD MAN. Mercy on a poor wretch! Mercy! CHARLES (starts back in terror). That is my father's voice! OLD MOOR. I thank thee, merciful Heaven! The hour of deliverance has arrived. CHARLES. Shade of the aged Moor! what has disturbed thee in thy grave? Has thy soul left this earth charged with some foul crime that bars the gates of Paradise against thee? Say?--I will have masses read, to send thy wandering spirit to its home. Hast thou buried in the earth the gold of widows and orphans, that thou art driven to wander howling through the midnight hour? I will snatch the hidden treasure from the clutches of the infernal dragon, though he should vomit a thousand redhot flames upon me, and gnash his sharp teeth against my sword. Or comest thou, at my request, to reveal to me the mysteries of eternity? Speak, thou! speak! I am not the man to blanch with fear! OLD MOOR. I am not a spirit. Touch me--I live but oh! a life indeed of misery! CHARLES. What! hast thou not been buried? OLD MOOR. I was buried--that is to say, a dead dog lies in the vault of my ancestors, and I have been pining for three long moons in this dark and loathsome dungeon, where no sunbeam shines, no warm breeze penetrates, where no friend is seen, where the hoarse raven croaks and owls screech their midnight concert. CHARLES. Heaven and earth! Who has done this? OLD MOOR. Curse him not! 'Tis my son, Francis, who did this. CHARLES. Francis? Francis? Oh, eternal chaos! OLD MOOR. If thou art a man, and hast a human heart--oh! my unknown deliverer--then listen to a father's miseries which his own sons have heaped upon him. For three long moons I have moaned my pitiful tale to these flinty walls--but all my answer was an empty echo, that seemed to mock my wailings. Therefore, if thou art a man, and hast a human heart-- CHARLES. That appeal might move even wild beasts to pity.