36 WILLIAM TELL.
But it’s my dear boy’s wish, I must not foil him,
Though p’rhaps, through my indulgence, I may spoil him.

[ALBERT 7s led out by A 21, holding the apple. TELL

takes his bow and his aim.

 

Slay my own son! Our dearest friends to shoot us ;
My hair stands straight—I feel a perfect Brutus.
ALB. (Outside.) All right, my venerable. Don’t say die.

Ges. Go it my pippin!
TELL, Albert, mind your eye!

[He shoots. A shout of triumph. TELL falls into some-

body’s arms—it is immaterial whose.