ACT IV. (The following day, towards evening.) SCENE I. (Prison—At one side a table.) ROBERT (without sword, hat, or mantle, sits dejectedly at ont side of the table). GOTTFRIED (keeping guard over him sits on the other side of it). GOTTFRIED. HOW could'st thou then so far forget thyself ? Our pride, the Master's friend and favourite ? ROBERT. 'Tis done ! GOTTFRIED. Why need'st thou be so goaded by A word from the old irascible Commander ? ROBERT. Ask me no further—Human nature's but A cobweb,—vehement passion's not man's work, It is his Genius' breath that circulates, Unseen, its threads among, the faithful slave Of Fate eternal ; from the common dust He cleanses them, dust that would earthward press The web-work down—Let Fate but nod, at once The little breeze to whirlwind grows, and rends