STAUFF. The king was riding down from Stein to Baden, Upon his way to join the court at Rheinfeld,-- With him a train of high-born gentlemen, And the young Princes John and Leopold; And when they'd reach'd the ferry of the Reuss, The assassins forced their way into the boat, To separate the Emperor from his suite. His highness landed, and was riding on Across a fresh plough'd field--where once, they say, A mighty city stood in Pagan times-- With Hapsburg's ancient turrets full in sight, That was the cradle of his princely race. When Duke John plunged a dagger in his throat, Palm ran him thro' the body with his lance, And Eschenbach, to end him, clove his skull; So down he sank, all weltering in his blood, On his own soil, by his own kinsmen slain. Those on the opposite bank beheld the deed, But, parted by the stream, could only raise An unavailing cry of loud lament. A poor old woman, sitting by the way, Raised him, and on her breast he bled to death. MELCH. Thus has he dug his own untimely grave, Who sought insatiably to grasp it all. STAUFF. The country round is fill'd with dire alarm, The passes are blockaded everywhere, And sentinels on ev'ry frontier set; E'en ancient Zurich barricades her gates, That have stood open for these thirty years, Dreading the murd'rers and th' avengers more. For cruel Agnes comes, the Hungarian Queen, By all her sex's tenderness untouch'd, Arm'd with the thunders of the ban, to wreak Dire vengeance for her parent's royal blood, On the whole race of those that murder'd him,-- Their servants, children, children's children,--yea, Upon the stones that built their castle walls. Deep has she sworn a vow to immolate Whole generations on her father's tomb, And bathe in blood as in the dew of May. MELCH. Is't known which way the murderers have fled? STAUFF. No sooner had they done the deed, than they Took flight, each following a different route, And parted ne'er to see each other more. Duke John must still be wand'ring in the mountains. FURST. And thus their crime has borne no fruit for them. Revenge bears never fruit. Itself, it is The dreadful food it feeds on; its delight Is murder--its satiety despair. STAUFF. The assassins reap no profit by their crime; But we shall pluck with unpolluted hands The teeming fruits of their most bloody deed. For we are ransomed from our heaviest fear; The direst foe of liberty has fallen, And, 'tis reported, that the crown will pass From Hapsburg's house into another line; The Empire is determined to assert Its old prerogative of choice, I hear. FURST (and several others). Is any named? STAUFF. The Count of Luxembourg's Already chosen by the general voice. FURST. 'Tis well we stood so staunchly by the Empire! Now we may hope for justice, and with cause. STAUFF. The Emperor will need some valiant friends. He will 'gainst Austria's vengeance be our shield. [The peasantry embrace. Enter Sacristan with Imperial messenger.] SACRIS. Here are the worthy chiefs of Switzerland!