_ Was there no cause
assigned?
Byron
'Tis true, there is a grandson,
Whom the late Count reclaimed from his son's hands,
And educated as his heir; but, then,
His birth is doubtful.
_Iden. _ How so?
_Fritz_. His sire made
A left-hand, love, imprudent sort of marriage,
With an Italian exile's dark-eyed daughter:
Noble, they say, too; but no match for such
A house as Siegendorf's. The grandsire ill
Could brook the alliance; and could ne'er be brought
To see the parents, though he took the son. 100
_Iden. _ If he's a lad of mettle, he may yet
Dispute your claim, and weave a web that may
Puzzle your Baron to unravel.
_Fritz_. Why,
For mettle, he has quite enough: they say,
He forms a happy mixture of his sire
And grandsire's qualities,--impetuous as
The former, and deep as the latter; but
The strangest is, that he too disappeared
Some months ago.
_Iden. _ The devil he did!
_Fritz_. Why, yes:
It must have been at _his_ suggestion, at 110
An hour so critical as was the eve
Of the old man's death, whose heart was broken by it.
_Iden.
_ Was there no cause assigned?
_Fritz_. Plenty, no doubt,
And none, perhaps, the true one. Some averred
It was to seek his parents; some because
The old man held his spirit in so strictly
(But that could scarce be, for he doted on him);
A third believed he wished to serve in war,
But, peace being made soon after his departure,
He might have since returned, were that the motive; 120
A fourth set charitably have surmised,
As there was something strange and mystic in him,
That in the wild exuberance of his nature
He had joined the black bands[172], who lay waste Lusatia,
The mountains of Bohemia and Silesia,
Since the last years of war had dwindled into
A kind of general condottiero system
Of bandit-warfare; each troop with its chief,
And all against mankind.
_Iden. _ That cannot be.
A young heir, bred to wealth and luxury, 130
To risk his life and honours with disbanded
Soldiers and desperadoes!
_Fritz_. Heaven best knows!
But there are human natures so allied
Unto the savage love of enterprise,
That they will seek for peril as a pleasure.
I've heard that nothing can reclaim your Indian,
Or tame the tiger, though their infancy
Were fed on milk and honey. After all,
Your Wallenstein, your Tilly and Gustavus,
Your Bannier, and your Torstenson and Weimar[173], 140
Were but the same thing upon a grand scale;
And now that they are gone, and peace proclaimed,
They who would follow the same pastime must
Pursue it on their own account. Here comes
The Baron, and the Saxon stranger, who
Was his chief aid in yesterday's escape,
But did not leave the cottage by the Oder
Until this morning.
_Enter_ STRALENHEIM _and_ ULRIC.
_Stral. _ Since you have refused
All compensation, gentle stranger, save
Inadequate thanks, you almost check even them, 150
Making me feel the worthlessness of words,
And blush at my own barren gratitude,
They seem so niggardly, compared with what
Your courteous courage did in my behalf----
_Ulr.
Whom the late Count reclaimed from his son's hands,
And educated as his heir; but, then,
His birth is doubtful.
_Iden. _ How so?
_Fritz_. His sire made
A left-hand, love, imprudent sort of marriage,
With an Italian exile's dark-eyed daughter:
Noble, they say, too; but no match for such
A house as Siegendorf's. The grandsire ill
Could brook the alliance; and could ne'er be brought
To see the parents, though he took the son. 100
_Iden. _ If he's a lad of mettle, he may yet
Dispute your claim, and weave a web that may
Puzzle your Baron to unravel.
_Fritz_. Why,
For mettle, he has quite enough: they say,
He forms a happy mixture of his sire
And grandsire's qualities,--impetuous as
The former, and deep as the latter; but
The strangest is, that he too disappeared
Some months ago.
_Iden. _ The devil he did!
_Fritz_. Why, yes:
It must have been at _his_ suggestion, at 110
An hour so critical as was the eve
Of the old man's death, whose heart was broken by it.
_Iden.
_ Was there no cause assigned?
_Fritz_. Plenty, no doubt,
And none, perhaps, the true one. Some averred
It was to seek his parents; some because
The old man held his spirit in so strictly
(But that could scarce be, for he doted on him);
A third believed he wished to serve in war,
But, peace being made soon after his departure,
He might have since returned, were that the motive; 120
A fourth set charitably have surmised,
As there was something strange and mystic in him,
That in the wild exuberance of his nature
He had joined the black bands[172], who lay waste Lusatia,
The mountains of Bohemia and Silesia,
Since the last years of war had dwindled into
A kind of general condottiero system
Of bandit-warfare; each troop with its chief,
And all against mankind.
_Iden. _ That cannot be.
A young heir, bred to wealth and luxury, 130
To risk his life and honours with disbanded
Soldiers and desperadoes!
_Fritz_. Heaven best knows!
But there are human natures so allied
Unto the savage love of enterprise,
That they will seek for peril as a pleasure.
I've heard that nothing can reclaim your Indian,
Or tame the tiger, though their infancy
Were fed on milk and honey. After all,
Your Wallenstein, your Tilly and Gustavus,
Your Bannier, and your Torstenson and Weimar[173], 140
Were but the same thing upon a grand scale;
And now that they are gone, and peace proclaimed,
They who would follow the same pastime must
Pursue it on their own account. Here comes
The Baron, and the Saxon stranger, who
Was his chief aid in yesterday's escape,
But did not leave the cottage by the Oder
Until this morning.
_Enter_ STRALENHEIM _and_ ULRIC.
_Stral. _ Since you have refused
All compensation, gentle stranger, save
Inadequate thanks, you almost check even them, 150
Making me feel the worthlessness of words,
And blush at my own barren gratitude,
They seem so niggardly, compared with what
Your courteous courage did in my behalf----
_Ulr.
