Hear me on! I fainted at the dreadful news. They must have thought me dead; for, when I recovered my senses, I was already in my coffin, shrouded like a corpse. I scratched against the lid. It was opened--'twas in the dead of night--my son Francis stood before me-- "What!" said he, with a tremendous voice, "wilt thou then live forever?" --and with this he slammed-to the lid of the coffin. The thunder of these words bereft me of my senses; when I awoke again, I felt that the coffin was in motion, and being borne on wheels. At last it was opened --I found myself at the entrance of this dungeon--my son stood before me, and the man, too, who had brought me the bloody sword from Charles. I fell at my son's feet, and ten times I embraced his knees, and wept, and conjured, and supplicated, but the supplications of a father reached not his flinty heart. "Down with the old carcass!" said he, with a voice of thunder, "he has lived too long;"--and I was thrust down without mercy, and my son Francis closed the door upon Me. (CHARLES: Impossible!--impossible! Your memory or senses deceive you.) Oh, that it were so! But hear me on, and restrain your rage! There I lay for twenty hours, and not a soul cared for my misery. No human footstep treads this solitary wild, for 'tis commonly believed that the ghosts of my ancestors drag clanking chains through these ruins, and chant their funeral dirge at the hour of midnight. At last I heard the door creak again on its hinges; this man opened it, and brought me bread and water. He told me that I had been condemned to die of hunger, and that his life was in danger should it be discovered that he fed me. Thus has my miserable existence been till now sustained--but the unceasing cold--the foul air of my filthy dungeon--my incurable grief--have exhausted my strength, and reduced my body to a skeleton. A thousand times have I implored heaven, with tears, to put an end to my sufferings--but doubtless the measure of my punishment is not fulfilled,--or some happiness must be yet in store for me, for which he deigns thus miraculously to preserve me. But I suffer justly--my Charles! my Charles!--and before there was even a gray hair on his Head!

Old Moor Monologue from The Robbers

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