Prince Henry. And I Prince Henry

of Hoheneck,

Who crave your hospitality to-night. Abbot. You are thrice welcome to our humble walls.

You do us honour; and we shall requite it,

I fear, but poorly, entertaining you With Paschal eggs, and our poor convent wine,

The remnants of our Easter holidays.
Prince Henry. How fares it with the
holy monks of Hirschau?
Are all things well with them?

Abbot.
All things are well.
Prince Henry. A noble convent! I
have known it long
By the report of travellers.
I now see
Their commendations lag behind the

truth.

Conrad, a Count of Calva, he who stood
Godfather to our bells.
Prince Henry.
Your monks are
learned

And holy men, I trust.

Abbot. There are among them Learned and holy men. Yet in this age We need another Hildebrand, to shake And purify us like a mighty wind. The world is wicked, and sometimes I wonder

God does not lose his patience with it wholly,

And shatter it like glass! Even here, at times,

Within these walls, where all should be at peace,

I have my trials. Time has laid his hand

Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it, But as a harper lays his open palm Upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations. Ashes are on my head, and on my lips Sackcloth, and in my breast a heaviness And weariness of life, that makes me ready

To say to the dead Abbots under us, "Make room for me!" Only I see the dusk

Of evening twilight coming, and have

not

Completed half my task; and so at times

The thought of my shortcomings in this life

Falls like a shadow on the life to come. Prince Henry. We must all die, and not the old alone;

The young have no exemption from that doom.

Abbot. Ah, yes! the young may die, but the old must!

That is the difference.

Prince Henry. I have heard much laud

Of your transcribers. Your Scriptorium Is famous among all; your manuscripts Praised for their beauty and their excellence.

Abbot. That is indeed our boast. If you desire it,

You shall behold these treasures. And meanwhile

Shall the Refectorarius bestow

Your horses and attendants for the

night.

The Chapel.

(They go in. The Vesper-bell rings.) Vespers; after which the monks retire, a chorister leading an old monk who is blind.

Prince Henry. They are all gone, save one who lingers, Absorbed in deep and silent prayer. As if his heart could find no rest, At times he beats his heaving breast With clenched and convulsive fingers, Then lifts them trembling in the air. A chorister with golden hair Guides hitherward his heavy pace. Can it be so? Or does my sight Deceive me in the uncertain light? Ah, no! I recognise that face, Though Time has touched it in his flight, And changed the auburn hair to white. It is Count Hugo of the Rhine, The deadliest foe of all our race, And hateful unto me and mine!

The Blind Monk. Who is it that doth stand so near, His whispered words I almost hear? Prince Henry. I am Prince Henry of Hoheneck,

And you, Count Hugo of the Rhine!
I know you, and I see the scar,
The brand upon your forehead, shine
And redden like a baleful star!

The Blind Monk. Count Hugo once,
but now the wreck
Of what I was. O Hoheneck!
The passionate will, the pride, the wrath
That bore me headlong on my path,
Stumbled and staggered into fear,
And failed me in my mad career,
As a tired steed some evildoer,
Alone upon a desolate moor,
Bewildered, lost, deserted, blind,
And hearing loud and close behind
The o'ertaking steps of his pursuer.
Then suddenly from the dark there

came

A voice that called me by my name, And said to me, "Kneel down and

pray!"

And so my terror passed away, Passed utterly away for ever. Contrition, penitence, remorse,

Came on me, with o'erwhelming force;

A hope, a longing, an endeavour,'
By days of penance and nights of prayer,
To frustrate and defeat despair!
Calm, deep, and still is now my heart,
With tranquil waters overflowed;
A lake whose unseen fountains start,
Where once the hot volcano glowed.
And you, O Prince of Hoheneck!
Have known me in that earlier time,
A man of violence and crime,
Whose passions brooked no curb nor
check.

Behold me now, in gentler mood,
One of this holy brotherhood.
Give me your hand; here let me kneel;
Make your reproaches sharp as steel;
Spurn me, and smite me on each cheek;
No violence can harm the meek,
There is no wound Christ cannot heal!
Yes; lift your princely hand, and take
Revenge, if 'tis revenge you seek;
Then pardon me, for Jesus' sake!
Prince Henry. Arise, Count Hugo!
let there be

No farther strife nor enmity
Between us twain; we both have erred!
Too rash in act, too wroth in word,
From the beginning have we stood
In fierce, defiant attitude,

Each thoughtless of the other's right,
And each reliant on his might.
But now our souls are more subdued;
The hand of God, and not in vain,
Has touched us with the fire of pain.
Let us kneel down, and side by side
Pray, till our souls are purified,
And pardon will not be denied!
(They kneel.)

The Refectory. Gaudiolum of Monks at midnight. LUCIFER disguised as a Friar.

Friar Paul (sings).

Ave! color vini clari,

Dulcis potus, non amari,
Tua nos inebriari

Digneris potentia!

Friar Cuthbert. Not so much noise,

Who arrived here just before the rain.
There is with him a damsel fair to see,
As slender and graceful as a reed!
When she alighted from her steed,
It seemed like a blossom blown from a
tree.

Friar Cuthbert. None of your pale-
faced girls for me!

None of your damsels of high degree! Friar John. Come, old fellow, drink down to your peg! (11)

But do not drink any farther, I beg!

Friar Paul (sings).

In the days of gold,
The days of old,
Crosier of wood

And bishop of gold!

Friar Cuthbert. What an infernal racket and riot!

Can you not drink your wine in quiet? Why fill the convent with such scandals, As if we were so many drunken Vandals?

Friar Paul (continues).

Now we have changed
That law so good,
To crosier of gold

And bishop of wood!

Friar Cuthbert. Well, then, since you are in the mood

going,

And anything else that is worth the knowing.

So be so good as to open your head. Lucifer. I am a Frenchman born and bred,

Going on a pilgrimage to Rome.
My home

Is the convent of St. Gildas de
Rhuys, (12)

Of which, very like, you never have heard.

Monks. Never a word.

Lucifer. You must know, then, it is
in the diocese

Called the diocese of Vannes,
In the province of Brittany.
From the gray rocks of Morbihan
It overlooks the angry sea;
The very seashore where,
In his great despair,

And the cells

Hung all round with the fells

Of the fallow deer.

And then what cheer!

What jolly, fat friars,

Sitting round the great, roaring fires,
Roaring louder than they,
With their strong wines,
And their concubines;
And never a bell,

With its swagger and swell,

Calling you up with a start of affright In the dead of night,

To send you grumbling down dark stairs,

To mumble your prayers.
But the cheery crow

Of cocks in the yard below,
After daybreak an hour or so,

And the barking of deep-mouthed hounds,

These are the sounds

That, instead of bells, salute the ear.
And then all day
Up and away

Through the forest, hunting the deer!
Ah, my friends! I'm afraid that here
You are a little too pious, a little too
tame,

And the more is the shame.

"Tis the greatest folly

Not to be jolly;

That's what I think!

Come, drink, drink,
Drink, and die game.

Monks. And your Abbot What's-hisname?

powers

Of getting up at all sorts of hours,
And, by way of penance and Christian
meekness,

Of creeping silently out of his cell
To take a pull at that hideous bell;
So that all the monks who are lying
awake

May murmur some kind of prayer for his sake,

And adapted to his peculiar weakness! Friar John. From frailty and fallAll. Good Lord, deliver us all! Friar Cuthbert. And before the bell for matins sounds,

He takes his lantern, and goes the rounds,

Flashing it into our sleepy eyes,
Merely to say it is time to arise.
But enough of that. Go on, if you
please,

With your story about St. Cildas de
Rhuys.

N

away again.

Friar Cuthbert. It is that nefarious Siebald the Refectorarius.

That fellow is always playing the scout, Creeping and peeping and prowling about;

And then he regales

The Abbot with scandalous tales. Lucifer. A spy in the convent? One of the brothers

Telling scandalous tales of the others? Out upon him, the lazy loon!

I would put a stop to that pretty soon, In a way he should rue it.

Monks. How shall we do it? Lucifer. Do you, Brother Paul, Creep under the window, close to the wall,

And open it suddenly when I call.
Then seize the villain by the hair,
And hold him there,

And punish him soundly, once for all. Friar Cuthbert. As St. Dunstan of old,

Friar Siebald. Help! help! are you going to slay me?

Friar Paul. That will teach

you

again to betray me! Friar Siebald. Mercy! mercy! Friar Paul (shouting and beating.) Rumpas bellorum lorum, Vim confer amorum Morum verorum rorum Tu plena polorum!

Lucifer. Who stands in the doorway
yonder,
Stretching out his trembling hand,
Just as Abelard used to stand,
The flash of his keen black eyes
Forerunning the thunder?

The Monks (in confusion.) The
Abbot! the Abbot!

Friar Cuthbert. And what is the
wonder?

He seems to have taken you by surprise. Friar Francis. Hide the great flagon From the eyes of the dragon!

Friar Cuthbert. Pull the brown hood over your face!

This will bring us into disgrace!

Abbot. What means this revel and carouse?

Is this a tavern and drinking-house? Are you Christian monks, or heathendevils,

To pollute this convent with your revels? Were Peter Damian still upon earth, To be shocked by such ungodly mirth, He would write your names, with pen

of gall,

In his Book of Gomorrah, one and all! Away, you drunkards! to your cells, And pray till you hear the matin-bells; You, Brother Francis, and you, Brother

Paul!

And as a penance mark each prayer With the scourge upon your shoulders bare;

Nothing atones for such a sin

But the blood that follows the discipline. And you, Brother Cuthbert, come with

me

Alone into the sacristy;

You, who should be a guide to your brothers,

And are ten times worse than all the others,