_Rolla._ Carefully instructed by your fathers and mothers to pluck every flower which might lie in your way,—to wring the neck of every bird which might fall into your hands,—from your infancy each avenue in your hearts has been closed against humanity, while he, who could with the greatest composure perform such ignoble actions, was considered as bearing in his bosom the germs of the future High-Priest. _High-Priest._ This from you, Rolla? _Rolla._ Beloved and pampered self is the sole object of your attention,—beauty is to you as a blunted arrow—and love appears an absurd romance. A shake of the head is the utmost tribute you can pay to the sufferings of a brother, nor does the tear of sympathy ever _start_ into your eyes, it only quivers there by compulsion. No emotion of concern would intrude into your breast were the world itself to be laid in ruins, provided _you_ were spared and could continue to live in case and affluence. _High-Priest._ Rolla, you torture me—you break my heart!—I must speak out and shame you. _Rolla._ Yes, speak!—that also you can do sometimes—not always. _High-Priest._ Learn to be silent when an old man would be heard, and if you cannot respect my age, at least respect my misfortunes. Is the station in which I am placed that of my own free choice?—are not the nearest relations of the king priests by birth?—am I to blame because the caprice of chance destined me to the altar, to immolate turtle-doves, to draw omens from the entrails of lambs, and to interpret dreams?—Oh had you known me in my youth, you would have seen me full of ardour and energy,—more eager to brandish the sword, than to wield the knife of sacrifice!—Believe me, there are but few persons in the world placed in the situations for which they are most suited, least of all those who hold an office by descent. _Rolla._ (_In a cold and constrained manner_) If I have said too much, pardon me. Overpowered as I am with rage and anguish, scarcely do I know myself. _High-Priest._ Had it been possible to throw aside this dignity with which I am reproached, as one casts off a tight and uneasy garment, I had spurned it a thousand, and a thousand times; for it has occasioned me forty years of the bitterest suffering. Rolla, Rolla, I cannot endure the chilling frown upon thy countenance; the eye of contempt with which I am regarded!—Thou the only being on whom my heart still hangs!—thou only being whose affections I still wish to attract!—listen, Rolla, to my tragic story—a story nearly resembling thine own!—My sorrows, like thine, proceeded from the heart—my sorrows arose from an ill-fated passion—I too loved a Virgin of the Sun! _Rolla._ How!!!