ACT THREE.

Fritz—I was with Canzler when the boy climbed up Among the rocks and handed it to him. Conrad—What does it look like? Fritz— It's as long as that,

And blue as the waters of the tarn down there. Upon the haft are wrought two eagles' heads And, twisted round the blade in coil on coil, A serpent in the talons of the birds Forms the cross piece upon the lower haft. On the blade between the coils what may be runes Are cut in characters of some unknown tongue; At least, no man has ever made them out. Conrad—Where could the boy have gotten it? Fritz— No one knows. Turn the bird over. Conrad— It is not brown yet. Fritz—There is something magical about it all. In the light, the blade bends like a willow wand, But when the sky is overcast with clouds Or in the shade of rock or tree no man With all his might can bend it, and it slips Through tree and rock as through a pawpaw leaf. Conrad—The boy himself, what did he say? Fritz— He vanished. Conrad— Eh? Fritz—When Canzler turned to ask him, he was gone. Conrad—And have you seen him since? Fritz— Where is your bread? Conrad—I have some here. (He reaches up into the bag.) Has no one seen him since? Fritz—He was out on the mountains every day Before, either by the abbey over there Or climbing in the vines above the tarn, But always in the shade of rock or tree. When he crossed spaces where the sunlight fell 'Twas always in the shadow of a cloud. No one has seen him since he disappeared. Conrad— (Laying the bread upon the grass.) You know the song that Wiglaf used to sing, Of how Val-father wanders over the earth In human form— Fritz— That is what Rudolph says; Val-father turns his dark side to the earth. Conrad—And leaves swords sticking in the rock and trees. Fritz—Rudolph insists that Oswald will return. He says that Selma learned it from the trees. She listens in the forest all day long And when the wind is loud and the boughs sway— Conrad—How could he ever find us here? Fritz— I see How that could be; Woden knows where we are, And where he turns his face the way is clear. Conrad—Oswald has turned his back on Woden's face. Fritz—Blind Hoder wandered once as far as Hell, And he came back, for Woden in his mind Directed him and—Here comes Canzler now. Conrad—Is that the sword. Fritz— Yes. Conrad— What was that he said? Fritz—He must be going down to see the priest.

Canzler—More than two years have passed and not a word Was ever said to throw the claim in doubt; But now that Hartzel is about to die They think to get the whole tract for the Church, Upon the ground that he who sold the land To Hartzel was apostate to their Faith. Rudolph—They don't deny that the man owned the land? Canzler—He owned the land till he disowned the Faith And by that act he dispossessed himself, And then, they say, the land reverted to God. Rudolph—And Hartzel's money, to whom does it revert? Canzler—That is a matter between infidels, And proves, when they rob one another so, There is no honesty outside the Faith. Rudolph—The man that sold the land robbed Hartzel, eh? Canzler—If knavery is all outside the Faith. Conrad—Will you men have some breakfast? Rudolph— And did they Tell Hartzel on what ground they had seized his land? Canzler—"All land is God's, and pagans have no right To own it," was the answer that he got. That was a month ago, though. When they found That the wind passed and still the fruit hung on, Thinking perhaps 'twould fall of its own weight. They waited until yesterday and then Unexpectedly they bumped the tree. Hartzel should hold possession during life— He is about to die—and at his death The Church should take the burden of the estate From his dead shoulders, and carry it without charge And with it save his soul from Hell. Rudolph— And save His children—? Canzler— From the path that leads to Hell. Rudolph—Is that their proposition? Canzler— That is it. The old man in despair appealed to me. Rudolph—What are you going to tell them, Canzler? Canzler—What am I going to tell them? Tell them what Val-father tells the mountains, tells the rocks, The trees, the beasts, the birds, all things that live. Woden, who made all things, made each to be Different from the rest. He made the oak To bear its acorns and the pine its cones. The mole to burrow and the fox to run, The eagle to hatch her brood upon the crag Under the sun, the bat, in the dark cave. The ox to eat grass, and the lion flesh, And each to go its own particular way Upon a path as separate and clear As are the curves and risings of the stars.

He made no bell to ring all things that live To sameness in their lives or in their thought. To keep them, as he made them, different, He gave to each an individual taste And matched the taste within with that without Which, when the two meet, the result is joy. Joy is the voice of each thing as it moves Toward Woden on the path that he laid out. The eagle finds its way without a guide To Woden, and the stars without a guide, Each in its own light, and all things that live, From the blind worm to the all-seeing sun, Follow their joy and come at last to him. The eagle's right to go the eagle's way Is not conditioned by another thing Save by the fact alone that it is so: That Woden gave to it an eagle's wings. And so with man. To what man has a right, He has a right because he is a man And not because he is a kind of man. Val-father's bells have each a different tone. You cannot make the million aisles that lead To him one aisle and drive all things through that, Or make the right of each to be and to have Rest on its answering a particular bell. If we admit their principle that Faith, Or anything outside the fact that one Is a man, is the basis of the rights of man, We shame our Saxon fathers who fought and died For a lie, if this be true. For when the South Pushed through the Frankish forest with her sword Between her teeth, and stained with blood, and held Her hands out, saying, "Here, take this or this," Our fathers chose the darkness of the grave From the red hand, and left the black hand filled With that which now to keep itself alive Eats Hartzel's land and licks its fangs toward us. When the great night came on and they laid down Under their battered shields and broken swords, The trees have told us what their last word was: "The northern air will kill the southern lie; Then we will come again. Remember this." Fritz—And here we are. Canzler— It may not be dawn yet, But some are up before the light. Fritz— And all The dead will rise when Balder comes. Rudolph— But now Val-father has his dark side to the earth, And works in his own shadow. Fritz— But the dawn Will reach down and lift Balder out of Hell. Conrad— (Drawing the sword from Canzler's belt.) If we concede to every man the right, As you say, Canzler, to his own belief, We must concede to the villagers the right To their belief that they own Hartzel's land. Canzler—We do concede it. Rudolph— Their right to their belief. But not their right to Hartzel's land. Canzler— With them Men are God's vassals, and the land they hold, They hold in fief to him, on terms of faith. Rudolph—And while they keep the Faith, they keep the land. Fritz—And when they lose the Faith, they lose the land. Conrad— (Walking aside.) And when they have no Faith, they have no land.

Canzler—Try that one in the shade there.

Fritz— Is it through? Conrad— (Looking behind the trunk.) More than a hand's breadth. Fritz— If the village dogs Snap at you as they are wont to— Canzler— I shall have No trouble with them. Fritz— And yet you expect To tell them what you said just— Canzler— I expect Hartzel to have his rights. Fetch it here, Conrad. Rudolph—The Bailiff, Canzler, is a rabid man. Canzler—I have no business with the Bailiff. Rudolph— Still, To reach the church, you must pass through the street. Canzler—Is it too narrow for two men to pass?

Rudolph—For two such men as you two are, it is. Fritz—With swords on thighs. Conrad— (Walking back toward the fire.) The hilts might knock. Fritz—(Following him.) Or blades. Voice of Selma— (Above.) I'm going with you, Father! Canzler— No, Selma; You— Selma— (Who comes running down the path.) Just to the dingle; the faries say The heather-bells are out. Rudolph— Let her go, Canzler. Canzler—Throw the white blooms away. Selma— (Throwing away a sprig of dog-wood.) Now may I go? Canzler—They make you sad. (He starts down the slope.) Selma— I'll not cry any more. I'll be gay, Father, if you let me go.

Conrad—Come back and have a woodcock.

Fritz— There he goes. (Shouting.) O Canzler! Conrad— He don't hear you. Rudolph— Who? Conrad— The Priest. Rudolph—Which way is he? Fritz— Riding down toward town.

Conrad— (Directing Rudolph.) Up that way from the Abbey. Fritz— I bet he's been Back to see Hartzel. (Shouting.) Canzler! Conrad— He can't hear.

Ely—For he was old and he had come four miles. Pierre—A cripple too! When was this? Ely— Yesterday. And when I showed him this and said: "Good man, Here is a rood he carved with his own hands," Light filled his eyes. Pierre— And had he come so far?

Ely— (Turning back.) I must be at the gate when father comes— Four miles on crutches. Suddenly he looked up. He must have seen a wing flash in the sky, For his face brightened with the light of faith, And like a seed he seemed to scent a shower. Pierre—What did you do? Ely— I asked him to kneel down. Oh, what a power there is in holy things! No sooner had I touched him with the rood Than like a plant he rose up from the stones And blossomed; cried: "Lord Jesus, I am cured!" And down the mountain ran shouting for joy. Pierre—The Holy Virgin bless us! Ely— Yes, he did; Ran down. I watched him till he disappeared, Then turned to stone. I could not stir, but stood Frightened as though an angel hovered near In the blue sky. Pierre— Oh, I have felt it too! These two days have to me been like a dream And I am dizzy as on some high place. At night I feel the stars are not far off, And when I wake, it seems to me the dawn Is breaking far below us on the world. So near we are to that which lights the sun, (He holds up the candelabra.) These candles, if I should dare to speak the word, Would burst out into flame. Ely— Pierre! Pierre—(Still looking up.) Oh, surely, Surely the hands that lifted Oswald up, Lifted our abbey too, and we are close To heaven. Perhaps about us in the air Are voices and the wings of those that hear Our very whispers,—martyrs, saints, Saint Giles. Ely—You make it terrible to live in flesh. Pierre—Oh, terrible! It is terrible to live Where every word drops in an angel's ear. I feel that every breath should be a prayer. Ely—I feel so too, Pierre. These acts of grace— Pierre—Are but the sparks of power.

Ely— Mere sparks, you think? These healings and this rescue from the gulch, Mere sparks? Pierre— Simply the scattered beams. Ely— And yet, The same great light hath kindled one and all. Is it not so? Pierre— All these will vanish when— Ely—Tell me. Go on. Pierre— When the full orb shall burst. Ely—What do you mean? Pierre—(Mounting the steps.) I dare not speak it. Ely— Brother! Pierre—Ely, we stand in darkness by the Tomb, And little beams flash on us from the chinks, But the full glory, flooding all the vault, Awaits the angel. Ely— Is it the dream you mean? Pierre—No one must ever tell him, Father says. Ely—You think then that the dream will be fulfilled? That it is Oswald whom the hounds of Hell Will chase up some vast mountain of the soul? Pierre—Soon the stone will stir. (He enters the chapel.) Ely— Pierre!

Basil— His crutches!

Simon—Here he is now. Ely! Basil—(Calling through the door.) Hear that, Rene? The beggar left his crutches for his gift.

Simon—You ask him. Ely!

Basil— Bring the crutches, man! Simon's got the gout.

Rene— When was it, Simon? Simon—Yesterday. I was sleeping on the bench When the old codger's shouting waked me up. And there he was. (He points up to the road.) I thought the man was mad, Or had been in the gables robbing nests, For his white hair fluttering in the wind Looked like a pair of pigeons on his poll. He must have thought the Devil— (He sits down on a bench.) Basil— Or else Ely. Rene—Yes, chasing him for his pay. Basil—(Indignantly.) His crutches! Simon— (Drolly.) He left his sole support.

Basil—(Excitedly, in an underbreath.) Rene!

Rene—(Huskily.) Simon!

Abbot—Saint Martin hath restored the golden dawn And put the clouds to flight. The kingly sun Looks on the world like our new-risen Lord Driving the night before Him. And the fiends, That fly with darkness from the pit of death To conjure with the baleful midnight stars And wreck God's holy chime of human souls, Are scourged to Hell, and all the rebel orbs Are thunder-stunned. Vapors and noxious fogs That hatch contagion in rank, drizzling swamps, Will soon beneath the lightning's flagellum With breezes fan their fevers from the blood, And with pure sea-dews from green ocean urns Sprinkle the parched earth to cool the vines Preparing clusters of our dear Lord's blood. The serpent spawn of imps and evil dreams, Fairies and watching wanderers of the night, That kennel in the bowels of the earth And taint its waters, blight the tender sprouts, And sow infections through the flocks and herds, Have flown like bats into the squalid caves, And there are numb with fear. O'er Zion's towers The virgin dawn brings forth the sun of God And smiles upon the world. The blessed light Spreads o'er the earth its bright, archangel wings, Dripping with balmy dews and cassia smells. The day will—

A Monk— It was Ely's trumpet. Another—Some one comes. Abbot— The asses from Italy, Bringing the wine and frankincense, no doubt. A Monk—And the golden chalices. Another— And Father's cope.

Abbot—Pierre! Pierre— What it is, Father? Abbot— Is the ambry clean? Pierre—It is, Father. Abbot— Go find Louis, and fetch— Fetch the diotas and—let's see—three casks.

One of the Monks—The train has come. Pierre— Father says bring the casks.

Abbot— (Calculating.) Thirty gallons and six—(Turning.) Four casks, Pierre. Simon—The chopin too, Pierre. You know the men, The mule-men will be dry. Basil— Or Simon will. Rene—Or Basil. Basil— Or Rene. Simon— (With his hand to his mouth.) Or Father.

Abbot— Louis!

Soloman—Quid est, Leo? Leo— (Telling his beads, on one of the benches.) The wine train has arrived. Soloman—From Paradise. Leo— Don't be irreverant. Basil—-(To Soloman.) Let no man look on wine when it is red. Simon—I shut my eyes.

Leo— Father will tend to you.

Abbot— (Walking aside with Louis.) Say nothing to the strangers of the affair. Louis—Of finding brother Oswald? Abbot— No, not that. His fall, his being found before the gate, All that, no doubt, the villagers last night Poured into their ears. The folk are deeply stirred. From tongue to tongue the flame of rumor runs That heavenly hands bore Oswald from the gulch. They think the holy saints have blessed his palms With power of healing and of miracles. Alms have increased ten-fold. Cattle and sheep, Jewels and coin, and corn and casks of wine Pour in from every side. Within a year, St. Giles will swell her roofs and shine in gold— (Confidentially.) Provided, Louis, provided. You understand? Louis—You mean the abbey here will robe herself In purple cloth-of-bodkin stiff with pearl, Provided— Abbot— This new loom shall keep her hum. Louis—That here red wines will flow to flush her face, Provided— Abbot— Hand in hand upon the hills This sudden sun that hath sprung up the sky Shall lead the vine and pour his blood to swell— Louis—That morning when it strikes her eastern gate Will see her heaving heavenward dome on dome, Provided— Abbot— Ay, that's it. You understand. The quarry for our domes is in our brains. Here, in our brains, your brain and mine, Louis, We have the shuttle of that wonderous loom That shall array her in her cloth-of-gold. Here is the sun, the bridegroom of the grape. And here, from hills of France and Italy, The purple bride shall come and loose her zone And lay her dower in the abbey's lap. Lock up that jewel, Louis, in its case. Let it not get abroad that you suspect— Suspect, I say; you surely do not know— Louis—I only know of what I heard and saw. I heard his voice and— Abbot— You were fast asleep. Louis—At first I was; then, wakened by the shout, Three times I heard him cry out in the dark: "Haro! help! help!" Abbot— A voice, of course; but whose? The night so alters sound you cannot tell. A cat-o'-mountain screaming in the dark For all the world sounds like a wailing child. Louis—But when I see the track, I'll tell you then. The track up by the gate, and it's there now, Is the dwarf's track, four toes on the left foot. Abbot—Preposterous, Louis, that this hunched devilock, Brought up on witch's dugs, in the dead of night Should be about the service of the Lord. Asses can talk like men when angels bid. Perhaps the angels, taking him in the act Of throwing brother Oswald from the cliff, Scourged him before them to the abbey gate And made him in his pain cry out for help And set his print to attest the power of God. Who knows? Louis—Brother Oswald, perhaps. Abbot—Only God. But make no mention of the witch's son. When truth is whist and doubt a favoring gale Blowing toward golden islands in the sea, Let the ship drive before it into port. No one was with you when you found him. Louis—No one. Abbot—And no one saw you. Louis—No one. It was still dark; The brothers were asleep. Abbot—Say nothing of it. Let rumor blow it as a miracle. Sweet feet of saints have run down in the night And with a touch enriched a holy house Of no more worth than this of good St. Giles. Rumor of saints can do as much as saints. If thoughts of bright wings stirring in the sky Can kindle hearts to deeds of charity, And by those deeds the Virgin's chapels rise, Let the flame run. We'll blow it through the land. I've had the brothers circulate report That wings were seen dissolving in the dawn Above the mountains. Louis—(With a smile.) So, perhaps, there were— agles wheeling airily in the clouds. Is this not, Father, to build upon the sand? Abbot—To build on sand is to build on a lie. Louis—What is a lie? Abbot—A lie is not a thing That is not, but a thing that cannot be. Thus to say good is evil is a lie, For good cannot be evil. But to say That that hath been which God hath power to do Is to make faith a fact. In days like these, When the Albigensian heresy is rank, We must support the Holy Writ in this, That what is done in thought is done in deed. Has a good deed been done? Then a good thought Has done that deed, and that good thought is God's, And such thoughts we call angels. Louis—Oswald, then, Was rescued by the angels? Abbot—Without doubt. The globe of fire that Dominic beheld Above our Lady's chapel in the plain Of Prouille was a light in his own mind. Louis—The multitude will never understand This nice distinction. Abbot—Just so; but shall we Show them the foul body of fair Truth Or the clear spirit? Louis—The spirit, Father. I never doubt the end you have in view. Abbot—You doubt the means, though. Deep down in your heart You smile and say: "But Father is all right. The times are fire, and fight for Benedict. To build the abbey, Father must have gold. To get the gold, the people must be bilked. But Father will return them light for gold. I never doubt the end he has in view." Louis—You are the brain, Father; I, the hand. You know that I would help you. You know that. Abbot—Anyway, Louis, I am justified. For simple souls find joy in simple faith. Go down into the village. Guido tells me Their faces shine because of this bright thing. It purifies and cheers them. Cyprian says There is no power that does not come from God. He might have said the same of light and joy, And shall I, to whom what I know this thing is Seems quite as strange as what they think it is— That angels did it—, take their light away Because I know it falls not from a star? A thousand lamps burn in the House of Life. Shall I walk through its chambers and say: "This, Children, and this, now these were lit of Hell; But that one there—see how the oil of God Goes up the wick and throws a brighter flame"? Unless they see it brighter, it is not. They cannot see it so without my eye. They cannot have my eye and keep their own, And they must keep their own a little while; At least until I get my abbey built, Until I shout the sun from out the sea And with its beams illumine the valley there. And since its rising on their gifts depends, And since their gifts depend on their belief, I cannot tell them their belief is false; 'Twould bring the abbey down upon their heads; And Benedict would shout forevermore, Seeing their night come back without a star. And so I cannot tell them what is true. Nothing is sadder than to see a mind Drifting between an old faith torn away And a new rock not risen from the waves. Their wisp must burn until the sun comes up. Our Lord himself tempered his dazzling truth To simple minds, and spake in parables, Leaving the halo on the brow of things. And shall we blow it away? Louis— Is it there? Abbot— For them, It is intensely there. And when they come Bringing their little gifts, what can I say? They ask me, "Is this light?" I say, "Does it Shine?" They answer, "Yes." "Then it is light." (A pause.) Is it? (A pause.) Louis? Louis— Suppose so; if it shines. Abbot—And if they say it shines? Louis—(After a pause.) I suppose so. Abbot—Shall Plato take Saint Giles' faith away? That, Louis, is the question of all time. Louis—If he can give him Plato's. Abbot— If he can. And if he cannot? Louis— If he cannot— (He stops.) Abbot— What? Ready to give to one who cannot take, Who cannot see my light beyond her light. Shall I step in upon my mother's prayer With noise, and say: "But see, yours is no god." And pick and pound and blow her hope away And loose her tears upon my father's corpse? (A pause.) Louis? (A pause.) Shall I? Louis— (Walking about with his head down.) I have naught to say. Abbot—Do I still seem to be a hypocrite? Louis— (Turning quickly.) Father! Abbot—What should I say? "Your eye sees false"? If they think rue will keep the devils off, To kill their thought would bring the devils back And leave them fleeing Hell, not seeking God; A different thing though Benedict knows it not. They are not ready for the larger life, And in a day I cannot make them so. They cannot take my light. Shall I take theirs, Their little light, and leave them in the dark? Take from their hearts the glory and the hope? How do I know what God means by this thing? If they should ask me I must drop my eyes And say: "He hides to-morrow from to-day," Which is no answer, Louis, and I know it. What can I do? No, I must seem to lie: While I am serving God, seem to serve Hell; Pray to the Giver of Light, "Thy will be done," And then give darkness! Oh, for some power, Some angel, Louis, that should come from heaven And free us from these bonds of policy! That we must hide our light like secret parts As though each shining ray were snake of Hell! Oh, that some god would step down on the peaks And make us throw our thought out on the dark, As fields their seeds, leaving the god of growth To separate and slay and bring to sheaf! How I would lay this cope and this aside, And with my face upon the mountains run, Aye, run to meet the bright thing coming down, And cry, "Hail, hail, hail, hail, thou blessed one!"

I cannot be a man! Louis— But, Father, that— Abbot—Accursed bondage harder than the Nile! Louis—That prophesy that Oswald brings, may it Not mean this very thing, that by his fall And this bright rumor that the angels saved him, A summer cloud that seems to rain down gold, May it not be that by this very gold Your tower of light shall rise upon this rock And save the North from darkness? May it not? Abbot—But who will save us from our policy, From playing hide and seek with God's bright son, From the necessity of withholding truth From those to whom the vital thing belongs, Who do not even hunger for it more, Who live and die about a taper's flame, Calling it star, and sun, salvation, God— And here all round us—Louis, look, the dawn! Louis—The quality of all light is the same. Abbot—Quality, Louis, is not quantity. The myriad spheres of dew leave the fields dark. The midnight luster on the swamp is light, Enough to guide the wild thing paddling there. The willow leaves give light unto the moth. The stars that fill us with the life to come Leave darkness in the prowling tiger's eye, And rise and set upon its curve of ball. God made the day for higher things than these. Some light is not enough for something more Than moth and water-rat and prowling maws That find their food in flesh. With what design Lit God the radiant pages? For what purpose Hung he the planet Plato in the sky With kindred constellations of pure thought, If I, a mortal man, can lift my hand And leave a shadow in the valley there? It fills my life with meaning to know this, That God hath ordered so our spiritual world That every bright thing needs my will to shine, As it needs His to reach the shining state. Think of such confidence of God in man! And I betray it. (He walks about thoughtfully.) Louis— You betray it? How? By holding back the truth about the dwarf? Abbot—I hide the light. Louis— You hide it as a seed Which, if the people eat, the famine spreads, But which, if planted, wide the harvest waves. Your own heart tells you you are right in this. Abbot—But when, when is the feeding to begin? If I to-day withhold the seed, who knows That I will not to-morrow withhold the yield, And so continue, building larger barns? Meanwhile the people in the valley die. Louis—But God, who sees your purpose in it all, Sees the day coming when this rock shall be A beacon, and this region full of light. Abbot—'Twill never be while Benedict is here. Louis—Oh, but look yonder, Father! Three hours ago Black clouds besieged the east, and lo, now Day Stands on the mountain tops and sees them not. Where Night has gone there's room for Benedict. Abbot—I know that, Louis; but the years go by. And oh, to use the little breath I have In doing what I never did before! How is it I cannot tell them what is true? Louis—'Twould crush in seed the abbey you would build. Abbot—How can an abbey rise upon a lie? Louis—You said it was not a lie. Abbot— It is a lie Until they know that it is not a lie. As I do. Louis— Will you tell them? Abbot— (Walking about.) I am bound, Bound hand and foot by cursed policy. I cannot be a man. Louis— Many a church Has lies like this above the altar place. Abbot—My abbey was to be part of the one. Louis— (After a pause.) You said, "Until they know it," Father. Abbot— Yes. Louis—"As I do." (The Abbot turns.) Do you doubt it was the dwarf? Abbot—I do not doubt the fact in the case, but I may not limit its significance. Louis— (With a smile.) An angel or a god, then? Abbot— Half so, yes. Louis—To free us from our policy? Abbot— Pray God It may be, Louis, pray God it may be. That unknown god should have an altar here. No, Louis: what I mean is simply this: This thing that we call evil, may it not Be the other side of this thing we call good, The passing of bright planets of the mind, Dreaming eclipse that is no thing at all, Simply the passing of the two things, both bright? God ever wrestles with his shadow, Louis, And now the bright goes down and now the dark: And man stands by and watches the great game With heart divided and with swaying mind And lifts whichever falls. The game goes on Forever, and the nations rise and fall Forever, and fall and rise. And so they strive, Like light and shade over the mountain slopes, Each wrestling not for victory but strength. Louis—And you and Benedict? Abbot— I am not his foe. I come from Florence and he comes from Rome. Louis—And you love painted windows. Abbot— I love God; He loves the Church. There is the difference. He iterates with fire in his eyes That Heathendom shall tumble down to Hell, But not a word that Ignorance shall fall Or Passion lose her lightning in the deep. I wrestle with the bright against the dark. Louis—For the world-soul. Abbot— Neither of us may win. In fact, I pray God that we may not. Louis— How? Abbot—I hope that some free, some free spirit may win. Not one wrapped round with ignorance, nor one Bound hand and foot by cursed policy. But I am not his foe. Louis— But he is yours. Abbot—Night does not understand. Louis— I cannot see. Abbot—Louis, the greatest man in this great world Is he who sees all things are going right. Yet fights as though all things were going wrong. (Louis shakes his head.) I know you don't. But I can do no more Than show my thought. To see it, must be yours. Louis—Then Oswald's fall— Abbot— Not if it gives him strength To do the work his spirit bids him do, To wrestle with the dark and with the bright, To wrestle better than he did before. And shake the fruit down of that prophesy. Who knows what God behind the horizon holds For Oswald till the dawning of that day? I somehow feel the dream is, as it were, The warp to which the prophesy is woof, And that beneath the hills unseen a loom Rocks as it weaves in dogs and storm and deer And underneath the meaning of it all. But I was speaking of the witch's son. This pebble here I take up in my hand. I turn it, yet I always see one side. The other side is toward the underworld, And though I turned it till the Judgment Day, That side would still be round there. Bid it grow, Swell to a bowlder's, now the chapel's size, And now a globe's. And let us hold it thus. Above us, on our palms. Like Atlas now I stand supporting it. (Pointing as though under the globe.) Down here I see A little night following a little day About a water-drop, a grain of sand, A point in which my spirit lives and moves. (Reaching up and around.) How do I know that up here are not worlds Lit with Gods' providence and bathed with soul? What is my thought that it should scale these zones And take my law of good and evil there And recreate that life to what I know? Is my eye God's, that it should see all things? From what far mountains come the grains of gold That sparkle in the river of my soul? Ranges of being and tall peaks of thought May hold up here a brighter metal still, Some burning thing would dry my river bed. The dreams that vein the dark sky of our sleep, As lightnings vein the night and then are gone, Whence come they and whither go they, that they leave Vast expectation and the vacant eye? And out beyond the chalice of our sleep That cases round my dew-drop soul, who knows What oceans roar with life beyond our life, And spray with stars the dark rocks of the void? How do I know what creatures come and go Beyond my little line of night and day, Doing the will of the Eternal Mind? I am not Benedict to say, "This is He, And this is not." Louis— Not even of the dwarf? Abbot—God is the author of the book we see Whose pages are the mountains and the stars. Though He may sit aloof, his soul pervades Each word and letter. Prowling in the spring, The mountain lion feels Him in her paws, And the wild creatures of the caves are His. Louis—Was He in Oswald's fall? Abbot— 'Tis past my thought How He should not be;—in his rising, too. If God is with me when I climb a hill, When I descend do I leave God somewhere Upon the top? If only he ascends, How came he in the valley, then, at first? Only the ignorant halve the universe And thresh events and say, "The wheat is God's," Piecing their small minds out with nothingness. The chaff too served its purpose in its time And while it served its purpose it was good And like the wheat it drew its strength from God. Having served its end, is wheat itself not chaff? If Oswald's fall is evil in our minds, It is because we do not see its place. But where my knowledge ends, does God end, too? Our brother tumbling from the bluff that night Into the gorge, but tumbled, as it were, Off of God's fingers into his great palm. Ascent and descent are in one straight line. I see no angle in the universe, A break in things, a point where God begins And Satan ends. If, in this strange event, The people see a movement of the sky And stand amazed, I stand even more amazed At what I see than they at seraphim. For what I see is darkness giving light, An earth-born thing showing capacity For deeds divine, and busy in the dark Not with its own low nature but with God. I grapple with it and my light goes out. I feel as though I walked in a strong wind Along a reed, with only faith for eyes. Reason calls it to me with a blind man's voice. That helplessness should bring an angel down, Is that as wonderful as that it should bring A devil up to do an angel's work? What we see, Louis, is the miracle. What they see, while it jars our sense of things, Falls nicely into the mental harmony. Louis—Good becomes evil having served its end. How Benedict would rage should he hear this. Abbot—Each mind takes of the light what it can hold. Louis—You know that day in the scriptorium, When you were reading the Symposium, What he said, do you remember? Abbot— Yes, I do. Louis—"If I had my way I would burn that thing." Abbot—A beam of the sunshine hurts the owl's eyes. Louis—And he would peck the stars out if he could. Abbot—As though our faith were fungus! Louis— If it be, If it must feed on darkness, let it die. Abbot— (Walking about thoughtfully.) It need not feed on darkness, Louis. Louis— This Miracle, Father, will bring back the day. Abbot— (To himself.) The Age is torn and shaken. Passions swell And range like winter rivers. I would have it Lucid and calm as Arno flowing down By sacred Florence. I am far away, Far away and my hairs begin to fall. Louis—This will bring back the day. Abbot— (To himself.) And nothing done.

Young faces radiant with the golden air That Plato breathed among the olive leaves. Louis— (Half aloud.) "If I had my way I would burn that thing." Abbot— (Half to himself, his back to Louis.) And if I had my way—(He lifts his face.)— Oh, I would build An abbey! I would cut its trenches deep Down into God, the God of all things. Then I would lay the white stones of Philosophy, The Sages who, as gifts to Delphi, brought Small sheaves of wisdom, offering them to God As better gifts than first born bulls and goats. And I would slay the griffin, Policy, And scatter its bright gold about the world And lay its carcass for the corner stone. Its telamons should be those giant men Who propt the fabric of the ancient world. The east and west and north and south should lay Their four white corners on the four broad backs Of Plato and his solid pupil's mind, Then him who dove too deep for Rome to see, Lucretius, maddening round the seeds of things, And Cicero because he loved the truth. And there should stand all round as peristyle The Bards of Greece in cluster, speaking gold; Young Sappho with the glory of the sea All round her milk white throat and marble arms, Proud Pindar fawning kings, and Sophocles, And he, he, Aeschylus, wild son of fire, Who never swerved for mincing Policy, But spake his sea-thought out and shook the world. Its roof should be the shields of golden song Wherever burning on the hills of Time, Wherever smouldering in Eternity. And I would have all planets God hath hung Since first His word went forth, "Let there be light," Within our spiritual heaven, shining here Without eclipse forever. And up there, In alto relievo on the frieze, should be Apollo slaying python Ignorance, And Darkness with the face of Benedict Half hung down, heavy, livid, hands and teeth Tugging and biting at the architrave To tear these golden letters from the slab. "The soul is in the brain." And over all, Towering with her calm eternal eyes, Athene, soul of Athens, holy One. Oh, I would build an abbey! Louis—(As in prayer.) Father! Father! Guido— (Appearing at the door of the chapel.) The fifteenth chapter has that blue stain on it. Abbot— (Pointing right.) In the scriptorium, the second shelf; Get the Symposium; I will read that.

Louis— (In a low voice.) Remember, Father. Is this policy. (A pause.) You know your abbey is not risen yet.

One breath of this would bring the rafters down. (A pause.) Abbot— (Turning, with his eyes closed.) The other Bible, Guido.

Louis— And you know Some of the brothers might tell Benedict, And he would send it blazing down to Rome. Abbot—Lamp after lamp goes out for policy.

Louis—Better one lamp than total darkness, though. Abbot—Say nothing to the carriers of the affair. Louis—Have you cautioned Oswald? Abbot—(Astounded.) Cautioned Oswald? Louis— Yes. Abbot—You said he was unconscious. Louis— When I found him He was unconscious. But from what he dropped Yesterday in his cell, I am sure he knows It was the dwarf that brought him up the rocks. Abbot—You should have told me that. (He walks to and fro.) Louis— Where is he now? Abbot—He had four golden letters to put on. Louis—Down in the village at his work again! Why, Father! Abbot— He insisted. Louis— (Under his breath.) Benedict! (A silence.) Abbot—Get ready and go down. A word from him, And down the abbey falls. Louis—Never to rise. Abbot—And yet— I do not think he'll tell it. Rumor, you know, Has stamped an image on the heated mind. They never could efface it by a thought So monsterous as that devils had turned saints And tripped the air with angels, hand in hand, Moving as musically as summer stars. Having no coin that bears the face of truth They never will suspect a counterfeit, And so no one will put the question to him. Unquestioned, certainly Oswald will not speak. Louis—But if he should? (A pause.) Awhile ago you prayed Some god to free us from our policy. (A pause.) What time did he go down? Abbot—Before day-break. The town at that time would have been asleep. Louis—And Benedict, who never sleeps? Abbot—Go down. Louis—Whose dragon eyes are ever open?

Abbot—Stay. Louis—Supposing Oswald has already told? If he has, Benedict will come up here Raging as upon a den of wolves. Then. If he should say: "Ha! So it was the dwarf And not an angel saved your monk. And here You pass the deed off as a miracle To swell your abbey's revenues and rob Me of the alms of my parishioners?" He sees me coming down the mountain side And shouts this at me, and I say to him—? Abbot—Surprised, amazed, you lift your hands: "Mon Dieu! A son of Satan save St. Giles' child! Do devils, then, wait upon men of God Working salvation? Do they? If they do, What means this storm of banners in the dawn, This, 'Dieu le volt!' and these bright harnassed knights Trampling the Orient into battle smoke? Why this vast tumult in the dead sunrise? If devils will take up arms and fight for God, Why roll these human surges down the East To smoke and break about the Sepulcher In hard white foam from which the ravens fly? Let Hell lead forth her legions from the pit Impervious to drought and pain alike, To take and guard the Tomb. No, Father, no. 'Tis blasphemy, the unforgiven sin, To ascribe to Hell a deed that God hath done." Louis—Says Father Benedict: "But brother Oswald Told me himself it was the witch's son." Abbot—"Mon Dieu again! Could Father keep his wits After a fall like that, and, rising, say: 'This is the hand that struck me, this that saved'? It was the dwarf that threw the brother down." With words like these, chisels of policy, Upon the shield of each returning knight That hath spilt blood about the Sepulcher, We carve an angel that shall plead our cause Through all the fields and villages of France And far on into the North and—Ah, this train! This train shall be the trumpet that shall blow Our miracle abroad through Italy, And Italy is the trumpet of the world. Talk to the strangers then of shooting stars, Of sounds of heavenly music in the night, But only when a question calls it forth. Climbing the tree gives flavor to the fruit. Be reticent; that will add majesty. Appear subdued and point to yonder peaks Where, in the gray dawn, gleams of vanishing wings Shone on the mountain snows like molten gold. You understand? About the witch's son, Adeste cum silentio.

Louis, No word as yet to Oswald of the dream. He would not see the glory of it now, Only the horror. I should fear the result. Basil— (Coming from behind the chapel.) Macias is coming with another sorel. (Louis enters the dormitory.) Bah, then! Go on. St. Christopher. Plum-head.

I am the Prior. Down, St. Peter! John! Rene— (To Simon.) Matthew, thou publican! Simon— Bacchus, thou saint!

Basil—Simply the old clothes of My Lady Wine. First Monk—The blessed Virgin grant it be the train. I had half yielded to old Andrew's dream; I feared the train was lost. Second Monk— Another dream? First Monk—Last night, between the glances of the moon, While his soul grabbled in the fogs of sleep, He beheld Father's new cope in a brook, Swishing against a fallen sycamore. The censer and the golden chalices Lay gleaming on the gravel. Simon— (Who has been tipping the casks.) And the wine? First Monk—While he was hunting for it in his dream, Like a blind weasel for a nest of eggs, And had his hand on what felt like a skin, The matins rang. He's been gruff ever since. There's not a holy bell can call to prayer To smooth our spirits with the thought of God, But brings him from his hole with ruffled quills, Threatening the belfry with his palmer's staff. He says he hopes the Devil has snared the train And spurred the asses off the bluffs to Hell. Simon—Now God forbid, with all that precious wine! Leo— (To Basil.) I shall tell Father on you. Basil—(Imitating Leo's small voice.) Hear him roar! Rene—If you roar, Lion, when the hunter comes— Soloman— (Leaning out of the window.) Heus, heus, O fratres, favete linguis! The train is safe. The tigers of the god Are ramping down the mountain, yoked in vines Whose dangling clusters sway their tawny backs And purple all the sky above the peaks. Limp in the car the noisy Bromios Tips the full cup and stains his ivory breast. Look, yonder his herald, plump Silenus, comes!

Rene—Ho, that's the occasion of the trumpet blast! First Monk—No need of casks. Basil— No need of empty casks. This is keel that draws five fathoms full. Rene—And where it anchors, there a reef appears. Basil—And where it founders, there the—sea goes down. Rene—Its beak hath ta'en the color o' the wave. Simon— (To First Monk.) If Father Benedict had had the train Or been among the muleteers, I'd say No wonder Andrew couldn't find the wine. Rene—Come on, Simon; let's go meet Macias. Basil—If we can't wine it we can dine it. Simon—(As he passes Leo.) Bah! Louis—

Are they in sight yet? Pierre— It was not the train. 'Twas Father Benedict.

What can it mean?

First Monk—He never came as early as this before. Second Monk—And see how worried Father looks. Pierre— I fear That some one has told Oswald of the dream, And he has fainted. First Monk— I will loiter about.

Abbot—What do you mean by wolves? Father Benedict— Wild paws that prey Upon the fold. Abbot— And by the fold, you mean—? Father Benedict—The Church. Abbot— These wolves live on the mountains here? Father Benedict—They do. Abbot— And are not far? Father Benedict— Some are not far. Within an eyeshot of the peaks. Abbot— And some Have even made this abbey here their den? Father Benedict—Would make it so. Abbot— And from these holy halls Steal forth and prey—well, let us say, upon Your flock? Father Benedict—They have preyed there. Abbot— Since when? Father Benedict—And with the fleeces wiped their heathen mouths, These wolves of Hell. Abbot— Benedict! Father Benedict— Ay, wolves of Hell. Hear what I say. Ah, Father, Father! Sometimes we think our Lord is dead in heaven, His enemies so thrive upon the earth. We see the Devil's squatters on our lands With deeds that seem to bear the seal of Heaven; Yea, everything they do seems blest of Heaven. They plow and sow; God gives them sun and rain. Their fields wave green; the frosts are kept at bay. They build their barns; Heaven holds her storms in leash And seems to slumber while the singing foe Silver their scythes beneath the harvest moon. But when the season plumps the golden ears And Satan brings his sacks to get the grain, God puts his sickle in and takes the crop. Abbot—Or sends a reaper? Father Benedict— Ay, sends Benedict. When vines are bending and the song is heard Of Bacchus revelling in the bubbling must, The golden trumpets of the sun in heaven Proclaim a festival and wake the skies. Angels come tripping to the foaming vats And, while the devils tread the vintage out, Brim their bright casks with gushing purple meath To crown the crystal goblets of the saints, Leaving the pulp to slop the swine of Hell. Abbot—In you I see an angel? Father Benedict— With a cask. Abbot—And in the abbey here I see the vat? Father Benedict—A goblet. Abbot— And in myself a— Father Benedict— Saint. Abbot— Ha! (Searching the Priest's face.) I do not understand you, Benedict. Father Benedict—Then I will put it this way: See this garb? You know I am a shepherd. Abbot— Yes, I know. Father Benedict—And tend a flock of sheep. Abbot— I know you do. Father Benedict—And sheep have wool? Abbot— Yes. Father Benedict— Now we go afield. Do briers grow in pastures? (The Abbot nods.) And have flukes? Abbot—I see. You mean to say that flukes tear wool. Father Benedict—That's what I mean. Abbot— That, therefore, from the shears The fleece comes lighter to the shepherd's hands. Father Benedict—And to the Master's. Abbot— Ha! but in this case— For your insinuation I perceive Clearly, I think;—well, in this case, I say, It does not follow that the Master gets Less tribute from the flock; for, Benedict, Remember this: When God's bright seraphim Collect His revenues, it matters not Whether it be your hand that pays, or mine. Father Benedict—Provided your hand pays, it matters not. Abbot—Ah, now you leave your figure. Father Benedict— And take yours. Abbot—You climbed the mountain, then—? Father Benedict— To get my wool. Abbot—And chop the brier? Father Benedict— That belonged to God. Abbot—Then tell me this: If it belonged to God, How then do you, His shepherd, claim the wool That God's own flukes have pulled from his own sheep? Father Benedict—You do not understand. Abbot— I think I do. Father Benedict—I did not mean the brier was God's, but this: That it belonged to God to chop it down. AbbotAbbot—The brier, then, has fallen? Father Benedict— Praise the saints. Abbot—You came to tell me how the blow was struck? Father Benedict—I stopped to tell you how I got my wool. Abbot—You need not. Father Benedict—Why? Abbot— I know. Father Benedict— You know? Abbot— I do. Father Benedict—I have not spoken since I left him. Abbot— Well. Father Benedict—How did you learn it, then? Abbot— I had a seed. Your coming was the sun, your words the shower; It could not help but put forth leaves and bloom. Father Benedict—Strange, very strange. Abbot— To see a stalk with flukes Put forth a bloom? 'Tis not unnatural. Father Benedict—I do not understand. Abbot— Nor I. Father Benedict— What? Abbot— This: How that a shepherd could believe a wolf Had suckled a lost lamb. Father Benedict— What do you mean? Abbot—That it is strange that you, a priest of God, Could see an angel's track upon a slope And say: "Here went a devil up the rocks." Father Benedict—It is too dark. Abbot— 'Twill ever be too dark To see aught but an angel in that gulch. Father Benedict—'Tis midnight. Abbot— No; for yonder peaks are flushed, And there bright wings are wasting in the dawn. Father Benedict—Father, what do you mean? Abbot—(Closing his eyes.) Listen, Benedict. In an old abbey down in Italy There hangs an ancient chime of seven bells. Oft when a child I heard them in the dawn Singing like angels in the Apennines, Their tones so blended, so harmoniously Tuned to the planets that, when twilight fell, They were the echoes of the Pleiades. Those old, old bells! I hear them still sometimes. We children called them by the golden names Archangels wear. Well, in a storm one night Raphael went down. Some say a huge black hand Strangled him in his tower and hurled him down. And others say—mark, Benedict—that God— Father Benedict—Anathema! Abbot— God's hand that shaped the spheres And hung them in the belfry of the night To ring through heaven an universal mass, And set the holy bells of earth in tune, And set our hearts in tune with holy bells. That, in the blue cathedral of the air, One chant might rise from hearts and bells and spheres, Some say that His, God's hand, threw down that bell. Father Benedict—I say, anathema! Abbot— And so you think—? Father Benedict—I think it was the foul hand of Hell. Abbot— Ah? Since withered faces skir along the sky, Might it have been some—witch? Father Benedict— I said the hand And that includes the fingers. Abbot— So it does. Well, Benedict, there you and I are one. We hold that that which jangles God's great chime. Whether it strike a sphere or a bell or a heart, Springs from the pit and hath its root in Hell. Father Benedict—Ay, we agree. Abbot— Then follow the same path And you shall see your seraph of the night Bleed out his strength upon the spears of dawn. 'Twas thought that Raphael's tumbling down the rocks Had wrecked his silver voice, and so he lay Three years half-sunken in a slimy marsh, His golden throat choked up with water-weeds And fetid lilies breathing of the swamp. 'Twas said that oft when morning woke the bells Upon the heights, a drowned voice was heard, A strangled booming in the marsh-fogs. Well. One Sabbath while the morning star still burned A lone white taper, on a sudden from his couch The ancient bellman started. The old chime Was singing in its tower, and, like a thrush That eyeless hath escaped a narrow cage, The voice of Raphael on his bough again Rang through the woods. The eagles on the crags Shook out their wings and circled in the sky; The mountain shepherds shouted from the rocks, While down the ether, flaming out of the East, Melodious angels in the sun-burst sang.

Now, Benedict, who lifted up that bell? Father Benedict—'Twas God reclaimed it and restored His chime. Abbot—And if that bell had been a—soul, who then? Father Benedict—Still God. Abbot— And if that soul had been— (Vehemently.) Oswald?

Father Benedict— (With rising resentment.) What does this mean?

Father Benedict— You put my faith to test? (A pause.) A damned insult!

Ah, I see what it means. Out with it, Father. Speak what God commands. (A pause.) Before you speak I know what you will say. (A pause.) Out of pure envy you are silent.

Abbot—(With a glance toward the Priest.) Out—? Father Benedict— (Without turning.) Of envy, or else fear that I would shrink. You need not, though. Abbot—(Stopping.) I fear that you would shrink? Father Benedict—To you, too, my great honor has been revealed.

Abbot—I do not understand you, Benedict. Father Benedict— (Turning and facing the Abbot.) Why do you hide it from me? Abbot— What are you Hiding from me? Father Benedict— You feared that I would shrink To tear those jaws upon the mountain side. Your dropping of your eyes shows I am right. Abbot— (Walking aside, composed.) I was not sure. Father Benedict—Why did you think that God Had revealed it only to you? Abbot— I was not sure That what I had in mind you had in mind. Father Benedict—And you thought you would feel about and see If I knew it. And if I did not, "Truth, retire. Do not obtrude yourself on Benedict. He knows the hunter's dream. If he cannot Discover whose hands those were the hunter saw Reach through the green boughs of the Tree of Life And tear the hell-jaws from the holy deer, It is not your fault. And I lose no glory. It is his own crass mind. He comes from Rome. Florence is Athens come to life again." Abbot—Envy, you think? Father Benedict— I know it. When you asked Whose hand it was that lifted up that bell, I knew that you were feeling me about To see if I knew that the hand was mine. Had I not known it, do you suppose I think You would have told me? Of your own accord: "Benedict, God hath chosen you for this. Be faithful to it. The glory is yours"? Not much. You pride yourself on what you think is God, Your erudition. But I know some things. (He walks aside.) Abbot—It is hard to know what another has in mind. Father Benedict—It may be hard for the Athenians. Abbot—I am an old man, Benedict, and with White hair the eyes blur and the mind dulls. You, Vigorous in body and in intellect. Scale heights I cannot climb. Bear with me, then. If I just now, forgetting youth is past, Ventured to tilt with you, is it not enough That you stand there triumphant while I here Lie prostrate with my gray hairs in the dust?

Father Benedict— (With a superior air.) Rome is Jerusalem, the city of God.

Louis— (In a low voice, barely hiding his irony.) Don't treat the old man that way, Benedict. You do not know how keenly Father feels The issue of this bout. Amazed I stood Just yonder by the chapel steps and watched Your spears break into fire. O Benedict, What skill, what skill, what admirable skill! Father Benedict—In dialectics I do boast some skill. Louis—Compared to Father's admirable skill! Father Benedict— (With a leer toward the Abbot.) For what I have I thank no heathen sage. Louis—With that composure which the gods must feel Your reached your spear and slipped his lady's glove— Father Benedict—His lady's glove? Louis— The secret from his heart In spite of all his desperate guarding it.

Father Benedict—Why should he hide it from me? Louis— I can't say. Father is not a man to show his heart. He no doubt had his reason for it. Father Benedict— Humph! Louis—I do know, though, that Father admires you. Father Benedict— Admires me? Louis— Yes. Father Benedict—Scorns me. Louis— You are wrong. Father Benedict—How do you know he does? Louis— Before you came, Father had just conceived of a great temple With you in large space on the entablature. Father Benedict— (Opening his eyes.) That is another proof he knew that I Was to have part in that great enterprise And achieve glory. And he lied to me.

Louis—You may mistake what Father had in mind. He may have thought it would be policy To keep you in the dark about this thing. Father Benedict—What cause had he to fear that I would shrink To face the glory of the Lord that day? 'Tis only guilt that fears to face the Lord. Louis—You may mistake what Father had in mind. Father Benedict—Too subtle, I suppose, for my dull brain. Louis—I do not think, though, that he envies you. Father Benedict—You may have your opinion. Louis— You may not. I mean you may not know what Father means. Father Benedict— You two know everything. Louis— I know one thing. You would not have said, "You two know everything," If you had been here half an hour ago. (Walking aside.) With you in large space on the entablature. Father Benedict—He need not think that God revealed to him Alone my glory, for I knew it, too. Blood appeared on my hands the other night, And while the congregation sat amazed, The altar cups took fire, and a white dove—

The night the brother fell I saw some things During service would have made my hair stand up Had I been less courageous than I am, Or less near God. You would have quaked with fear, And sought the books of some old heathen sage For explanation. I—I went to God, With the result that I am ready now. I have been shown the blood of that great hound. (He looks at his hand.) And I have got God's meaning. I am called. Now, when the chase starts I will make my way Up to the mountain tops and meet the Lord, And Heathendom shall tumble down to Hell.

Abbot—What did you come up here to see me for? Father Benedict— (Stopping.) Come up to see you? Abbot— You are here. Father Benedict— I am. (A pause.) It seems you don't know how I got my wool.

Basil—What'll you have, Simon? Simon— Collops and sauce. Basil—Pluck-pudding or crupper? Simon— Both, God bless us. Basil— Both! Rene—Goose, too? Simon— Ay, stuffed with plums. Basil— Why, you just had A hunk of beef. Simon— Sh! (He points to the Abbot.) Rene—(Nudging him.) Basil, see the twigs.

Louis—(Huskily.) Be wary, Father; it may be a snare. Abbot—A little wine will bring it to the light. Basil—Well, it is spring when asses put forth leaves. Father Benedict—Ay, rue that devils flee from in the dark.

Abbot—But when you left the town the dawn was bright. Father Benedict—The dawn was bright? Abbot— The day is two hours old. Father Benedict— (After a long look at the Abbot.) When I rode out of town the sun's red car Stood hub-deep in the western ocean's sand. I met the morning on the mountain tops Fresh dropt from heaven, with one golden wing Bright on the pines, the other softly sheathed In valley shadows thinning round her plumes. The night I spent far back among the hills. For three hours in the darkness on the road I staked my life upon the ass' step And ass and life upon these slips of rue.

If any manna fell upon the heights The Devil must have harvested the flakes: I found none on the way. Abbot— I fear the fiend Has washed it down with our good Tuscan wine And dressed Hell's tables with the golden cups The Abbot Boldi sent from Aosta. The tide is out and the Italian moon Has slipped her sphere that ruled the purple flood. These are the empty shells that held the sea.

Have something, Benedict. Father Benedict— Ah, you are good. Abbot—What could have drawn you back among the hills When every pass was choked with drizzling dag? Father Benedict—I'm like a desert. Rene—(To Basil.) And there flows the Nile. Father Benedict— (To the Abbot.) The service of our Lord that knows no flaw, Mountains or darkness or the voice of storms. Last night—Fill it up.—Last night God's—There.— Last night God's dread apparitor— (He drinks.) Abbot— What's that? Father Benedict— (Tasting his lips.) Rumney, isn't it? Abbot— Not that— Father Benedict— (With mock seriousness.) Isn't it? Abbot— I mean— Father Benedict—Pour me another, then; I'll taste again.

Abbot—You said God's dreadful summoner— Father Benedict— Appeared. And clapped his irons on old—

Abbot— Benedict,— Father Benedict—One more. Abbot— Don't think— Father Benedict— The night is in my veins. Basil—(To Rene.) It's a dry night. Father Benedict— (Holding up the cup.) But the red dawn is breaking— (He drinks.) Rene— (To Basil.) The abbey here. Father Benedict—And lightening— (He drinks.) Basil—(To Rene.) The great deep. Rene—Come, sing the matins, Simon, for the dawn— Abbot—Don't think it is the wine I care for. Father Benedict— Ha! The cup, eh?—Take it.

Abbot— A while ago you said God's dreadful summoner appeared. Father Benedict— Yes. (Pierre goes out.) Whoa! Simon— (Following Pierre.) Pierre. Pierre—No. Simon— Just a tiff. Pierre— No, I say. Simon— (Supplicating.) Brother! (Spitefully.) Dinky! Bed-bug! Pizzle-wizzle! (With a grimace.) U-g-h! (He spits at him and turns back.) Father Benedict— (Who has mounted.) Now if you get my switch, I think I'll go.

Father Benedict—You see, I could ride off without one word. Louis—Without one word of what? Father Benedict—(Contemptuously.) One word of what! You think I came from town and so does he. Abbot—What of it? Father Benedict— Simply this: that I did not. Abbot—We are glad to have learned that. Louis— Delighted. Father Benedict— Humph! And you don't wish to know where I have been? Abbot—'Tis immaterial. Father Benedict— That is another proof You envy me. First, you conceal from me That which you feared would blow my name abroad; And now you fear to hear where I have been Because from what you know of me you know Whatever comes I meet events as friends, And never sally out but I return With spoil, and that stirs up the green in you. Now I will tell it though the heavens fall. Old Hartzel's dead. Abbot— I find no joy in that. Father Benedict—Of course, you don't. Rene—(Calling across the court.) Old Hartzel's dead! Basil—(Under his breath.) Thank God!

Father Benedict—You don't think I told that to give you joy? Abbot—It matters nothing to me in either case. Father Benedict—But this will matter something. Listen now.

I get his forty neat and all the land Between the river and the raddle-hedge South of the village, with the acreage Of tilth and vines that fronts the rising sun Near the White Torrent. Does that give you joy?

Basil—(Aloud.) Thank God! Abbot—(Lifting his hand.) This is the work of Benedict. Father Benedict—(Stopping.) You mean that as reproach? Abbot—I simply mean We had no hand in this; the glory is yours. Father Benedict—Come with me.

Father Benedict— You remember, I suppose, As we clashed spears a while ago I said The abbey here was a goblet, and you a saint. I might say that I spoke in irony, But that would not be nice. Abbot— And you said, too, Something about an angel with a cask. Father Benedict—That is a cut at me. I recollect. I said that I would fill your cup. Abbot— Proceed. Father Benedict— (Leaning over.) Of this estate you get one cow. You hear? That's a fine liquor, eh, Father? (To the ass.) Come up.

You are an old man and your work is done. You may retire now and live on milk. 'Twill nourish that great intellect of yours. Louis— (Under his breath.) As well as anything that you could give. Abbot—I welcome anything that can do that. Father Benedict—If it be heathen. Abbot— Benedict, before you came Louis and I were talking of the things That late have happened. Father Benedict— The dream. Abbot— Oswald's fall And his unnatural rescue from the gulch. Father Benedict—'Twas supernatural, not unnatural. Abbot—A nice discrimination, Benedict. I do not see as you do. You were trained By masters who, no doubt, had they heard this Distinction, would have said: "Benissime!" Father Benedict— (Superciliously.) Well done is optime. Abbot—(With mock humility.) Just so—just so— My master would have said—yes, optime. A boon it is that words cannot change things.

Father Benedict—You feared that I would shrink to play my part? Abbot—We feared if you should learn what your part is— Father Benedict—That I would shrink? Abbot— If you should learn your part. Father Benedict— (Getting angry.) You feared that I would shrink? Abbot—(Hesitatingly.) W-e-l-l— Father Benedict— Say it. Abbot— Yes. Father Benedict— (Shaking his finger.) Deep in your heart you wish I would, old man. 'Twould fill your soul with joy. But mark you this: To give you joy is not my destiny.

Abbot—Your destiny, Benedict, is in God's hand. Father Benedict—Thank God it's not in yours. (A pause.) Abbot— You must go down. Oswald, by noon, will have finished up his work. Stay with him till he does, then bring him back. Louis—If I go now, though, Benedict will suspect Something is up.

As it is, he does not know That Oswald has returned to work. (A pause.) Besides, After his long, hard ride he will want rest. He will not go near the church. (A pause.) What do you say? (A pause.) I will go after service. Abbot— (After a pause.) Very well.

Madam Valmy—Aunt Rachel! A Voice—(Back in the house.) Yes. Madam Valmy—(After a pause.) O auntie! The Voice— Yes, child, yes. I get this dough off. Rosa!

Madam Bacqueur— Every day Some dark deed sends a shudder through all hearts. Who is it this time? Madam Valmy— No one seems to know. It happened on the mountain, Rosa said. Madam Bacqueur—I wonder if Father Benedict has returned? Madam Valmy—Returned from where? Madam Bacqueur— He rode away last night Into the mountains. I do hope and pray—

You know so many strange and evil things Have happened lately. Just a week ago Old mother Sar was palsied. Then young Foy, In the dead of night, saw witch-fire on the heath. Next day two cows, their udders drizzling blood, Ran snorting down the road into the wood, And all the village curs that ventured out Came yelping to their kennels cramped with fear As though the devils chased them. Madam Valmy— Did you ever! Madam Bacqueur— (To Hugh Capet who hurries out, left.) You will come back and tell us what it is? Hugh Capet—That all depends, Madam, that all depends. Madam Bacqueur—Indeed they did. And that's not all. Thursday A black stone fell from heaven. Father said It was a challenge. And that very night Occurred a wonder during complines. Yes, The golden chalices in the church took fire And circled round the altar. Blood appeared On Father's hands, and while all sat amazed, Looking to see him caught away to heaven, A snow-white dove flew through the trancept wall, The Holy Spirit, Father says. You know The canvass that they keep covering the cross That Oswald carves, round that it whisked and moaned, And Rachel says she heard the voice of Christ Under the canvass: "It will not be done." Meaning the cross, I thought; but Father says: "Maybe it means God's will will not be done," And so it proved. Disaster came at dawn. Pierre, the sacristan of good St. Giles, Brought the news down to Father Benedict. But you have heard of the great miracle? No? And all the world has heard of it? Madam Valmy— You know I have not been to town since Sunday week. Madam Bacqueur—Oh, angels have fluttered down on us since then! And will again, so Father says. La me! I tell you, Madam Valmy, if any grave In the churchyard there had jumped a horrid ghost To stalk the moonlight in a rotten shroud, There'd be less stir among the village folk. I know not how it was. It seems they found The dear monk, Oswald, bruised and bathed with blood,

Lying before the monastery gate. Madam Valmy—Why, Clotilde! Madam Bacqueur— Yes, indeed. And that's not all. To think we slept through all of it! To think We did not wake and cry out, "God is here!" And then run up and down and ring the bells. Oh, expectation kindles every bush For our Lord's coming. Madam Valmy— What? Madam Bacqueur— Oh, everything! How wonderful are mountains angels' feet Have trodden on! How beautiful the air! Oh, everything seems different to me now. I half expect to see the stone put forth A human face and speak to me of God. Dear Madam Valmy, trees are not really trees. As Father says, all things have passed away, And with the miracle the other night Our Lord begins his reign upon the earth. For hours I sit and look in my child's face And wonder if he sees. Madam Valmy— What? Madam Bacqueur— (Holding up her child.) Fire! fire! O child, child, see the fields, the glory— A Voice—(To the right.) Fire? Jules Bacqueur— (Entering.) Where is the fire? Madam Valmy—The crowd, you see. Jules Bacqueur— Whose house? Madam Valmy—Rosa ran in and said some one was hurt. Madam Bacqueur—Don't you go with them, husband.

Jardin's been Trying to get the men to storm the heights And kill the heathen and the witch. The Voice—(Back in the house.) Rosa! Madam Valmy—She is not here. And he is still alive? Madam Bacqueur—There's not a night since the dear brother fell But what I've heard her on the roof. Madam Valmy— Clotilde! Madam Bacqueur—But oh, the Holy Ghost was with him. Yes, His staff they found next morning and his hood— Thank God for that—they found his hood and staff Down in the gorge, full forty feet below The mountain road. Madam Valmy— Not over the steep gray bluff! Madam Bacqueur—Think of a fall like that! At break of day They found him at the monastery gate Unconscious, carried there by unseen hands— Madam Valmy—What! Madam Bacqueur— Yes, indeed. And those who found him saw Archangels sitting on the mountain tops With golden shields, and there were sounds of war Far off as they were fighting in the clouds; Driving the witches off to hell, no doubt. Madam Valmy—On these mountains? Madam Bacqueur— And even that's not all. Madam Valmy— (Putting her arms about her.) Dear Madam Bacqueur. Madam Bacqueur— I get so dizzy. You must have Rachel tell you. I won't fall.

Such wonders and such cures and things to come. I dare not think of much less speak of that. Such brilliance, la! You should see Father's face How it lightens when he speaks of it. His eyes Look far away across the glory fields. "Bretheren, this miracle is but the blossom Whose fruit shall fall in fire upon the world. Pray, all of you, that you may be perpared." Madam Valmy—For what? Madam Bacqueur— (Catching her breath.) I am afraid I— Madam Valmy— Don't try, then. Madam Bacqueur—There is a glory far off in the air. Father has seen it and his eyes are bright. So bright. Rachel will tell you. Or it may be He sees the pilgrims that shall gather here. This morning Marie heard two brothers say There's sure to be a shrine where Oswald fell. Think of it, Madam Valmy, these streets thronged With holy men that live beyond the sea. I never even thought to pray for that. God does all things so easily, though. And— And all for his dear sake. But I don't know. The Scriptures say Satan shall be let loose. Madam Valmy—The shrine? Indeed I do. In the last days; in these days, then. Do you? Madam Bacqueur— How good of you! You always did have so much faith. Madam Valmy— You know The day your child was christened— Madam Bacqueur— Oh, how true! How like a star his name will shine! Madam Valmy— I now Predict again. He'll be a saint. Madam Bacqueur— (In utter amazement.) A— Madam Valmy— Saint. Madam Bacqueur—You think he will? Oh, do you, Madam Valmy? Do you, indeed? Oh, think of what that means To little Oswald here! To wear a name A blessed saint hath worn and given him With his own lips at the baptismal font; To see a white hand beckon from the sky And hear forever in each vesper chime A saint's clear voice calling his soul to come And flower out beneath the holy bells. Oh, think, Fidele, some day when he is old And in his cloister yonder on the mountain, When the dear brothers gathered after prayer Shall talk of holy things, and one shall say: "My father fought with Montfort in the wars"; Another: "I have seen St. Bavon's tree"; And some old palmer who hath seen all shrines Shall tell of Subiaco and the thorns Of good St. Benedict, my boy can say: "I grew to manhood in the little town Down in the valley. I have never been Beyond the mountains, but each day have heard, Morning and night, St. Giles' dewy bells Ring from these towers the twilight hour of prayer, Yet was I favored. When they christened me"— Oh, I can see them wonder at him then, And press about him.—"When they christened me St. Oswald stood god-father at the font And blessed me with his hands upon my head, Blessed me and said: 'The Virgin keep this child.' A neighbor said his face shone like a star, He was so full of glory. And the night, The night the angels brought him from the gorge And laid him here before the abbey gate, He wore the holy hood my mother made. They keep it yet inside the sacred chest, There in the chapel." (Faint shouts far to the left.) I am so afraid Jules will go with them. Would you mind if I—

Have Rachel tell you of that awful dream.

Rachel—Clotilde? Marie? Oh, it's Fidele! Why, child, When did you come to town? Madam Valmy— (Taking Rachel by the hand.) There's some one hurt. Rachel—Fidele! You frighten me. That horrid word! Who is it? Madam Valmy—The crowd. Rachel— Where? Madam Valmy— Down by the church. Rachel—Those heathen dogs. Are they in town? I fear—

Jardin—Was Jardin right last week when comrade's wife

Fell palsied and he said: "Let's kill the witch; Next thing she'll strike some brother." Was he right? Was he? In here is a cross can tell you. Is the cross done? Can any man say why? The holy monk that carves it, where is he? Up yonder on the mountain in his cell, Nigh unto death. Only the Virgin's hands That plucked him from the pit can save his life. And who's to blame? Who is to blame, men? Eh? You men that shout to sail out to the East And swell about the neck as vipers do, Blowing against the Moslems, what do you say To the heathen on the mountain up there, eh? Twenty moons and more have risen and set Since they took up their station 'neath the stars And, in collusion with the hag of hell, Shook pestilence and death upon the air. Planets have knocked and fire has fallen and blood Has drizzled over all this region. Eh? What do you think our Lord thinks of these things? Rescue the mountains; they are His Sepulcher. You want to see Golgotha? There it is. A mountain with a heretic on its peak Is like a spear thrusting a bitter sop Up to our Lord's lips even in heaven. You men Who see the sop and leave it there are Jews. Hugh Capet—They're Maccabees. Jardin— As for Jacques Sar and me, We'll wear these arms— Jacques Sar— Until the Judgment Day. Jardin—Till our old bodies rot, or see those peaks Waved over with the banner of our Lord. And you think you will live to see that chase. You know what I would do if I were God?

Gabriel should pass over with his sword And pierce some heart would bow all heads in tears. Then you would go shouting up the mountains. And If this keeps up, you mark me what I say, Crosses will thicken out there on that grass.

But eat and sleep, though. Feed your coward hearts. Then die. And then what? Then the Judgment Day. And after that, what? Hell.

Bacqueur— Who is it's dead? Jacques Sar—Dead? All of us, he says, an the hag lives. Hugh Capet—He's right, too.

Is it Father Benedict? Jardin— (Straightening up.) It was for that that he rode back there. Eh? Tell them? What for? What good would that do? What Do they care if the heathen keeps his land? I see some of you here that yesterday Was down at Bacqueur's. Do I? Do I see you? Somehow it seems to me I recollect Hearing as how old Hulga'd never strike No man no more since God had saved the monk And maybe threw her off the cliff herself. Did any of you hear that? Did you men? Eh? No one, eh? So Jardin must have dreamed. Well, in the dream then Jardin seemed to say: "The hag will strike till we have dragged her down, Her and her dwarf, Canzler, the big heathen, And all his kith, and burnt them in the street." A Voice—You got him in the church, Jardin? Madam Bacqueur— La, now! Hugh Capet— Down with him! Jardin—Was Jardin right again? Has Hulga struck? You'd see the ass he rode you'd think she'd struck. Awhile ago here some one shouted out: "Who's in the church?" I've got the arrow strung And now I'll tell you, now I'll let it fly. The wine train's lost; three of the mules are dead; Two men were crushed to death; our Lord's dear blood, Witches have poured out on the mountain rocks. Now, has she struck? You think she has, eh? Hugh, What did we tell them? Jacques Sar? Bacqueur? Eh? Didn't we? Bacqueur—How did it happen, Bailiff? Jardin—Some one here asked if Canzler was in here. No. Yes. What if he were or what if he is? You think I'd tell you and see you fall dead? (Madam Valmy enters, right, leading old Rachel by the hand.) One of the muleteers rode in for help. He only spoke Italian. A friar, though, Told me his tale. Last night when the train reached The Devil's Pass—'twas dark; the moon had sunk—Three withered hell-hags, with the skirring clouds Flying toward Pampeluna to their sabbath, Lit on a gray crag. Lightning splintered blue About them, smells of sulphur rose, and thunder Clapped the dark rock. The mountain shook. Straightway, Cries of the men rang out. The leaders crashed, Dumb-smitted with horror, mules and packs and all, Down through the chaparral to the gowle below. The witches vanished. All the Pass was still Save through the night the golden chalices Clinking far down the scaur. Then on a sudden