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With light heart the poor fisher moors his boat,

And watches from the shore the lofty ship

Stranded amid the storm.

WALLENSTEIN.

Art thou already

In harbor, then, old man? Well! I am not.

The unconquered spirit drives me o'er life's billows;

My planks still firm, my canvas swelling proudly.

Hope is my goddess still, and youth my inmate;

And while we stand thus front to front almost,

I might presume to say, that the swift years

Have passed by powerless o'er my unblanched hair.

[He moves with long strides across the saloon, and remains

on the opposite side over against GORDON.

Who now persists in calling fortune false?

To me she has proved faithful; with fond love

Took me from out the common ranks of men,

And like a mother goddess, with strong arm

Carried me swiftly up the steps of life.

Nothing is common in my destiny,

Nor in the furrows of my hand. Who dares

Interpret then my life for me as 'twere

One of the undistinguishable many?

True, in this present moment I appear

Fallen low indeed; but I shall rise again.

The high flood will soon follow on this ebb;

The fountain of my fortune, which now stops,

Repressed and bound by some malicious star,

Will soon in joy play forth from all its pipes.

GORDON.

And yet remember I the good old proverb,

"Let the night come before we praise the day."

I would be slow from long-continued fortune

To gather hope: for hope is the companion

Given to the unfortunate by pitying heaven.

Fear hovers round the head of prosperous men,

For still unsteady are the scales of fate.

WALLENSTEIN (smiling).

I hear the very Gordon that of old

Was wont to preach, now once more preaching;

I know well, that all sublunary things

Are still the vassals of vicissitude.

The unpropitious gods demand their tribute.

This long ago the ancient pagans knew

And therefore of their own accord they offered

To themselves injuries, so to atone

The jealousy of their divinities

And human sacrifices bled to Typhon.

[After a pause, serious, and in a more subdued manner.

I too have sacrificed to him-for me

There fell the dearest friend, and through my fault

He fell! No joy from favorable fortune

Can overweigh the anguish of this stroke.

The envy of my destiny is glutted:

Life pays for life. On his pure head the lightning

Was drawn off which would else have shattered me.

SCENE V.

To these enter SENI.

WALLENSTEIN.

Is not that Seni! and beside himself,

If one can trust his looks? What brings thee hither

At this late hour, Baptista?

SENI.

Terror, duke!

On thy account.

WALLENSTEIN.

What now?

SENI.

Flee ere the day break!

Trust not thy person to the Swedes!

WALLENSTEIN.

What now

Is in thy thoughts?

SENI (with louder voice).

Trust not thy person to the Swedes.

WALLENSTEIN.

What is it, then?

SENI (still more urgently).

Oh, wait not the arrival of these Swedes!

An evil near at hand is threatening thee

From false friends. All the signs stand full of horror!

Near, near at hand the net-work of perdition-

Yea, even now 'tis being cast around thee!

WALLENSTEIN.

Baptista, thou art dreaming!-fear befools thee.

SENI.

Believe not that an empty fear deludes me.

Come, read it in the planetary aspects;

Read it thyself, that ruin threatens thee

From false friends.

WALLENSTEIN.

From the falseness of my friends

Has risen the whole of my unprosperous fortunes.

The warning should have come before! At present

I need no revelation from the stars

To know that.

SENI.

Come and see! trust thine own eyes.

A fearful sign stands in the house of life-

An enemy; a fiend lurks close behind

The radiance of thy planet. Oh, be warned!

Deliver not up thyself to these heathens,

To wage a war against our holy church.

WALLENSTEIN (laughing gently).

The oracle rails that way! Yes, yes! Now

I recollect. This junction with the Swedes

Did never please thee-lay thyself to sleep,

Baptista! Signs like these I do not fear.

GORDON (who during the whole of this dialogue has shown marks

of extreme agitation, and now turns to WALLENSTEIN).

My duke and general! May I dare presume?

WALLENSTEIN.

Speak freely.

GORDON.

What if 'twere no mere creation

Of fear, if God's high providence vouchsafed

To interpose its aid for your deliverance,

And made that mouth its organ?

WALLENSTEIN.

Ye're both feverish!

How can mishap come to me from the Swedes?

They sought this junction with me-'tis their interest.

GORDON (with difficulty suppressing his emotion).

But what if the arrival of these Swedes-

What if this were the very thing that winged

The ruin that is flying to your temples?

[Flings himself at his feet.

There is yet time, my prince.

SENI.

Oh hear him! hear him!

GORDON (rises).

The Rhinegrave's still far off. Give but the orders,

This citadel shall close its gates upon him.

If then he will besiege us, let him try it.

But this I say; he'll find his own destruction,

With his whole force before these ramparts, sooner

Than weary down the valor of our spirit.

He shall experience what a band of heroes,

Inspirited by an heroic leader,

Is able to perform. And if indeed

It be thy serious wish to make amend

For that which thou hast done amiss,-this, this

Will touch and reconcile the emperor,

Who gladly turns his heart to thoughts of mercy;

And Friedland, who returns repentant to him,

Will stand yet higher in his emperor's favor

Then e'er he stood when he had never fallen.

WALLENSTEIN (contemplates him with surprise, remains silent a while,

betraying strong emotion).

Gordon-your zeal and fervor lead you far.

Well, well-an old friend has a privilege.

Blood, Gordon, has been flowing. Never, never

Can the emperor pardon me: and if he could,

Yet I-I ne'er could let myself be pardoned.

Had I foreknown what now has taken place,

That he, my dearest friend, would fall for me,

My first death offering; and had the heart

Spoken to me, as now it has done-Gordon,

It may be, I might have bethought myself.

It may be too, I might not. Might or might not

Is now an idle question. All too seriously

Has it begun to end in nothing, Gordon!

Let it then have its course.

[Stepping to the window.

All dark and silent-at the castle too

All is now hushed. Light me, chamberlain?