MORITZ--Oh, if you had only told me that sooner! My morality harried me to death. For my dear parents’ sake I clutched at deadly weapons. “Honor thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be long upon the land.” In my case the text has phenomenally stultified itself! THE MUFFLED GENTLEMAN--Indulge in no illusions, my dear friend. Your precious parents would no more have died of it than you. Strictly speaking, they would in fact have stormed and blustered merely from the necessities of health. MELCHIOR--You may be right so far:--but I can tell you positively, good sir, that if I had given Moritz my hand just now without more ado, the blame would have rested simply and solely on my morality. THE MUFFLED GENTLEMAN--But that’s just the reason you’re =not= Moritz! MORITZ--All the same I don’t believe the difference is so material--at least, not so conclusive, that you might not perchance have met me too, esteemed Unknown, as I trotted that time through the alder-thickets with the pistol in my pocket. THE MUFFLED GENTLEMAN--And don’t you remember me? Why, even at the final moment, you still were standing between =Death= and =Life=.--But here, in my opinion, is not exactly the place to prolong so deeply probing a debate. MORITZ--It is indeed growing cold, gentlemen!--Though they did dress me in my Sunday suit, I have on under it neither shirt nor drawers. MELCHIOR--Good-bye, dear Moritz. Where this person is taking me, I don’t know; but he is somebody---- MORITZ--Don’t lay it up against me, Melchior, that I tried to make away with you! It was old attachment.--I’d be willing to have to wail and weep all my life if I could now accompany you out of here once more! THE MUFFLED GENTLEMAN--In the end, each has his share--=you= the consoling consciousness of having nothing--=thou= the enervating doubt of everything.--[_To_ MORITZ.] Farewell. MELCHIOR--Farewell, Moritz! Accept my cordial thanks for appearing to me once more. How many glad, untroubled days have we not spent with one another in these fourteen years! I promise you, Moritz, let chance what will,--tho in the years to come I turn ten times a different man,--be my path upwards or downwards,--you I shall never forget---- MORITZ--Thanks, thanks, dear friend. MELCHIOR--And when some day I am an old man, grizzle-haired, then perhaps it will be =you= that once again stand closer to me than all those living with me. MORITZ--I thank you.--Luck to your journey, gentlemen.--Lose no more time! THE MUFFLED GENTLEMAN--Come, child! [_He links arms with_ MELCHIOR, _and makes off with him over the graves_.] MORITZ--Here I sit now with my head in my arm.--The moon hides her face, unveils again, and looks not a hair the wiser.--So now I’ll turn back to my little plot, straighten the cross up that the madcap kicked so recklessly down on me, and when all is in order I’ll lay myself out on my back again, warm myself with decay, and smile.... CURTAIN FOOTNOTES: [1] _Asperula odorata._