  SCENE ONE—In the cavern, as in Scene two of the second act. The spinning wheel stands against the wall and above it from a peg hangs a heavy skein of black wool. The baskets lie upon the floor. To the right of the low fire, a heap of chips, pine cones, and broken limbs. The cave is quite dark. From the left the gnomes enter stealthily, one after another. TIME—The same night. Kilo—(Huskily.) Gone. Zip—(Calling back.) Gone. Voice—(To the left.) She's gone. (Gimel enters and, after him, Suk. Kilo crosses the cave and stands listening.) Zip—(Stopping.) What is it? (Gimel puts out his hand, palm back, warningly. Suk stops. Suddenly, to the left, a sound of whistling is heard.) Suk— (Huskily, to silence him.) Zory! (The whistling stops.) Kilo— (Turning back.) It's a frog booming on the river bank. Gimel—The villagers should hear it they would squeal: "Ave! Ave!" and hurry to the church And take their pennies to the Priest. Curse them! (While the rest snoop about the cave in search of food, Kilo puts some kindling upon the fire, and getting down upon his knees, blows it into a flame. He then stretches himself out upon the floor, and proping his head upon his elbow, begins to poke in the ashes with a stick.) Kilo—Gimel, you're mad because your monk's alive. (Zip goes out right on tiptoe.) Suk—I wonder if Granny knows we killed the bat? Gimel—I haven't had a bite since. Suk— Yesterday I found a cricket down among the stones Still numb with winter's cold. Gimel—(Fearfully.) What is it, Zip? Kilo— (Nonchalantly.) Gimel, if the monk was sleeping there On Granny's couch and you had Loki's sledge, Think you could kill him? Suk— Sh! (Kilo sits up.) Gimel— Zip, what is it? Zip— (Re-entering.) It's going to storm. The clouds are scudding fast And thick and dark, brushing the mountain tops. Suk—She gets the owl, she'll be here. (Kilo lies down. The other gnomes, as if fearing the entrance of the witch, walk, left.) Suk— Better get up. Zip—She'll flog you, Kilo, if she finds you there. Kilo—I'll play I'm Sigurd. Zip— Then she'll drub you sure. You see these baskets here? To-night at dusk The boy crept tiptoe to the entrance there And threw them in. I holloed at him: "Hey! You'd better run! Granny's been looking for you." (Kilo rakes a coal from the fire and blows the ashes from it.) Kilo—You say the wind's up, Zip? Zip— It's going to storm. Suk— (Looking among the dry herbs.) There's not a leaf of Odin's helmet here. Kilo—Gimel! (He blows the coal.) Gimel— (To Suk.) She's taken it with her. She knew Kilo— Come here. Gimel—She'd never see us in this cave again. Voice— (To the left, in a monotone.) A rat and a cat and a cat and a mouse. Suk—I wonder when she's going to make us broth. Gimel—She said we'd be as thin as chestnut leaves Before she put the cauldron on again. Suk—How can we toil when fire won't burn, When Loki's hammers are soft as lead, When her charms all fail wherever we turn, When blight won't gather and murrain won't spread? How can we toil when there's not a Nix But turns to stone at a crucifix? (From the left, Zory enters.) Zip—What are you chewing, Zory? Zory— Slippery elm. Gimel—She's scared herself at the pesky thing. Often as here by the coals she's sat Crunching her pignuts and stroking her cat, Many a time I've heard her say That Thor's arm shriveled that April day When out of a cloud in a thunder shower He threw his bolt at the tall gray tower. It shivered a poplar tree near by. The church stood sound with its cursed crest, While the god went bellowing down the sky, Clutching his shoulder in terrible pain. Now he rides to the east and he rides to the west—So Granny says—and he's never seen Lashing his goats through the driving rain. Dark and fireless the clouds drift round; Their waters fall without any sound. It's Hoder that drives them now, I ween. Zory— (Leaving the herbs.) She'd left a slip of the Devil's herb, (Skipping to the right.) You'd see me sweeping along the sky; I'd straddle the moon and ride her down. Zip—Be quiet, Zory.—You'd better not. You hear? (Zory goes out.) Suk—The fairies too are bolder now. Every hour you can hear them call From forest and bracken and water-fall. Even at midday, when I've been clearing Ore from the mountains and stood a peering Through cracks in the cliff, I have seen them at play Catching the drops of silvery spray, Running with emeralds and amethysts To the stones where the purple iris rests. With hands to their mouths, from the mossy ledge, They boom to the bittern far down in the sedge On the river bank. They are in the air. Woodland and water—everywhere. Gimel—And there's not a place even down in the ground, No matter how dark, but that elves are found Whispering and prying, their little eyes Darting and glancing like fireflies. Suk—They say that's the cause of Loki's fright. Zip—And well it might be, if this tale is true. Sleeping he lay on the ground one night— He had guzzled his fill of Granny's brew— When, thinking he heard his bellows blow, He opened his eyes and spied the glow Of flames on his forge, the sparks a leaping, And a score of elves—-they thought him sleeping— On trough and anvil and on the ground Clapping their hands as they fell around. Then he stirred, when lo! there was not a spark; The bellows was still, the stithy was dark. Kilo— (Rising quickly to a sitting posture.) The tale is as true as the master's steel. Here on the stones I lay that night, Curled like a cat in the fire-light, While there by the wall with a whirring sound Granny's old spinning wheel went round. It whirred and it whirred so I could not sleep, So I lay and yawned and began to peep And nudge the fire, for the night was cool. Around the big wheel the wether's wool Ran black, the dame's foot under her skirt Paddling the pedal for Sigurd's shirt. The wheel stopped a moment, and during the hush I had dropped to a doze, when there came a rush Of the coldest air that ever warped skin, And Loki, frightened, dashed up and in From the rift in the rocks. (He rises to one knee.) His face was white And the smut upon it showed black as night And his limbs were so weak that he almost fell. When he got his breath he began to tell How, roused from his sleep by a noise in his shop— Then Granny spied me and nudged him to stop, And the two went out. I leaped to the ledge And peered through the crack. Far up on the edge Of the cliff where the hazel bushes grow, The pines were glossing; the gnomes, I trow, Were choking the caves to get in the ground And hide in the dark lest they should be found When Balder should roll his bright wheel on high. Already his lances waved in the sky Bedabbled with blood. The heavens were pale And the peaks were bright with his burning mail. I lost not a trice. As quick as a wink I rushed to the roots and out through the chink Darting invisible through the air, I squatted toad-like on the turf and heard Them babble their plans, heard every word, Heard Granny wheeze and the master say—As they rose from the rock and turned away—"We must nag on the gnomes or the cross will rise. They must take the monk's life or put out his—" Zory—(Rushing in.) Look out! (He dashes out, left, followed by the other gnomes. From the right, the witch enters. In her right hand she holds a big black owl by the wing; in her left, a large club. She is tall, raw-boned, and weasened. Her hair is of a stringy gray, and a skein of it hangs upon her cheek. Her breath comes short, and there is a wheeze in her voice.) Witch—What's this? Burning my wood? (Shouting.) Sigurd! Ay, ay! You'd better hide, you lazy, crooked dwarf. You'll pay for this. (She throws the owl down, and taking the sticks from the fire, beats the flames out upon the floor.) You'll pay for this, I say. You'll gladly sleep upon the coldest stones, But you'll not close an eye. You'll moan all night, Dragging your red-puffed soles across the floor, And beg the gnomes for snow. I'll teach you how To burn my kindling up. Here I must trudge Up to the blasted cliffs day after day, Strip bark, drag brush, break limbs, and gather cones Among the pines, the bait of all the winds, And barely get enough to heat my brew, And here you'll lie roasting your wretched bones. I'll warm your cursed shanks. I'll put your feet To blister on the red-hot coals again (Hanging up the baskets.) Let the monks take the geese. They're out there now Flapping their wings and gaggling at the moon To call the Christians down. You'll keep their necks! You'll swear by father Thor you fetched them up And penned them in the lot. I'll beat you, though; I'll whale you with these rods until you're sore. (She piles her wood against the wall.) Let the monks steal the geese. You'll gather wood. You'll find it scarce, I vow. There's not a day You're by the stream. You're up among the crags, Beating the eagles from the new-dropped kids. You feed the woodman's ewes. You hunt the hills For sorrel-grass to see the lambkins eat. You never drain an udder for my sop, Or bring me honey from the gum. Sneezeweed You never dig or nightshade from the marsh. You play among the logs. My nuts and corn You steal to feed the striped chipmunks with. All day you're in the wood or on the slope, Listening to hear the noisy Christian bells. You love the damned sound. You love the monks. You fetch them pine knots from the big green ridge To singe the gnomes and light their altar fires. You've learned to fumble buckeyes on your breast. I'll teach you how to pray. Ay, ay! You hear? I'll weave my dwarf a cowl. Ha, ha! You hear? Sigurd! I'll get you in the morning. (A rumble of thunder.) Eh? (Thunder again.) Ay, ay, Thor! I'll have them there! (Shouting.) Gnomes! Gnomes! Zip! Gimel! Kilo! Lazy broth-suckers! Here's work for you, you knaves! Work and broth! (Louder.) Broth, I said! You hear? Zory, you scamp! (Feeling about her dress.) Hear what I say? Kilo! Suk! Gimel! Here's broth for you! (In an underbreath.) If you'll work. You don't, I'll lamn you, you toads. (Shouting.) You hear? Ay, peak about! peak about! Thor wants you. (The gnomes enter timidly, half-afraid.) Suk— (Whimpering.) I'm hungry. Witch—Hungry! Out in the air with you, then! Suck the lightning's dugs! Guzzle in the rain! (Low muttering thunder.) Hear that? Can you? Can you bark? Ay, ay, Thor! (As the thunder dies away, the gnomes rush wildly toward the witch.) Ay, here's your herb! Out with you now, every last one of you! Zip— (Giving him a leaf.) Up with you! (Zip disappears.) Kilo! There you go! (Kilo disappears.) Now Suk! Now Gimel! Now you can get him! (The gnomes, taking the slips, disappear.) Ay, ay! Chase the monk! Crack the big bells! Pluck up the pines and knock the steeples down! Zory— (Rushing in.) Me too, Granny! Witch—Ay, you scamp! (Giving him a leaf.) Bark now! Skedaddle in the air! Zory—I'll straddle the moon and— (He disappears.) Witch— There you go! Ay, straddle her! Ride her through the clouds! There they are, Thor. Now for my dwarf. (Picking up her club.) I'll bruise him a little. (Shouting.) Sigurd! I'll get you. (She goes out, left.) SCENE TWO—The scriptorium in the dormitory of the abbey. The walls are of stone. In the left wall, near the corner, a door opens into a hall that leads thence to the courtyard. Near it, forward, an enormous chest with metal trimmings and handles of embossed stags' heads, the antlers gradually disappearing into the panel. Upon the chest, as though thrown there carelessly, lies a heavy cloak. About ten feet from the door, against the rear wall, stands a small priedieu covered with a rich altar-cloth interwoven with the figure—seen in old arras—of St. Giles sitting upon a rock with the deer resting its head in his lap. Behind the deer is a clump of brambles. The kneeling piece, which projects from under the folds of the altar-cloth, is of dark wood highly polished. Upon it is a scarlet cushion. A little above the priedieu, in a semicircular niche in the wall, is set a bronze crucifix some ten inches in height. Before it burns a small taper. Farther to the right, a second door leading into a corridor which connects with the sleeping apartments. Between this door and the priedieu are shelves filled with books and old manuscripts. Beyond the door, which swings in and is partly open, an old buckler hangs upon the wall, and beneath it, upon two iron spikes, a long spear. Between the spear and buckler is fixed a parchment cut mitriform and bearing in large illumined letters the inscriptions Hugh de Buillon cum deo et cum godefrido nicaeis antiochiis hierosolymis mil nonag sept oct nov. Farther to the right, in the corner, a Saracen coat-of-mail filled with spears which, converging center and spread out above and below, look like a sheaf of steel. Across the breast of the coat-of-mail is a strip of parchment with the inscription illumined as before: A MOHAMED FILIO SATAN CHRISTO FILIO DEI. In the right wall are apertures of two deep-set windows, near which are three carrels, each with an old manuscript spread out upon it and ink-pots and other copying and illuminating materials. Hanging beside them are finger rags smeared with various colored stains. On one of the carrels lies a sprig of flowering mountain laurel. Near the center of the room, a few feet to the right, stands a long table running parallel with the side walls. It is overstrewn with old manuscripts, some of them discolored and half unrolled; others, near the forward end, piled in the form of a miniature pyramid. Farther back, a small brass lamp, pitcher-shaped and with a wick protruding from its spout, burns with a yellow flame. The room is but dimly lighted, as a large room would be, with a single lamp burning upon the table and a little taper winking in the niche in the wall. To the right of the table, in a square, high-backed chair with animal-feet, sits the Abbot in a black gown, bareheaded. His feet, which are under the table, are cased in slippers of sheep-skin with the white fleece still upon it. From his right hand, which hangs beside his chair, a scroll of parchment trails upon the floor. Farther back, upon the opposite side of the table, stands the Priest, his left hand resting upon the back of a chair the front legs of which are raised a few inches from the floor. At the further end of the table Oswald is standing with his finger wiping away the tears that trinkle down his cheeks. Thunder is heard intermittently, and from time to time the windows are shaken by the violence of the wind. Father Benedict— (White with wrath, turning to the Abbot.) Endorse this, Father? Oswald— Father, I did not say it. Abbot—Ira, Benedict, altis urbibus Causa cur perirent. Let him explain. Father Benedict—I say, do you endorse this? Oswald— I did not say it. Abbot—I endorse nothing till I hear both sides. Father Benedict—I gave you both sides. Abbot— Sit down, Benedict. Father Benedict—You think I'd sit down with these things spread here, (With a wave toward the manuscripts.) And Christ thrust yonder in the little niche? Not while I have in mind the first Psalm. Abbot— Yet You seem to have forgotten what a?apa? means, As found in that third chapter of St. John. (He lays his parchment upon the table and reaches over and takes a book from the pile at his right.) Father Benedict—Not while I have in mind the first Psalm. Abbot— (Turning over the leaves of the book.) If You thought more of the Gospels— Father Benedict—-(Sarcastically.) As heathens do. Abbot—What is it to be a heathen? Is it not To act unchristlike? Father Benedict— What is it to be a dog? Oswald—I did not say that Father was a— Father Benedict— What! Just now you did confess— Oswald— I said you spoke— Spoke as hunters— Father Benedict—That's a lie! Abbot— Benedict! Be circumspect, lest in your anger you Bay at him and turn that which you do scorn. Father Benedict—I scorn the imputation which his pride Popped at me. As though all the saints in heaven Bowed down to him because the other night— (Turning away.) Oh, but God hates the proud man! Abbot— And, therefore, Wisdom doth bid you keep an open ear And leave the scroll of judgment still unsealed. For how shall Mercy find the iron leaf? Will Heaven's book be open if we close Ours? When men cry to us, if we shut our ears, We shut out Heaven's whispers. Oh, nothing—Of all the deeds men do that vex the sky—Nothing so rankles in the heart of God As to see lips, fresh come from prayer for grace, Refusing justice. (The Priest has walked forward at an angle from the table and stands with his back to the Abbot. Reaching under his gown, he draws a dark string across his breast and begins, seemingly, to untie a knot. The Abbot regards him in silence.) Will you hear him? Father Benedict—(Gruffly.) Go on. Abbot—No, Benedict; do it dispassionately. You say God hates the proud. So he does. Yet Wrath is more perilous to a man than pride. For while pride turns a man's face to the sky, 'Tis wrath that shoves him where the thunders fall. Father Benedict— (Under his breath.) I'll drop some thunder on you. Abbot— Now, my son, Speak as though angels heard you. 'Tis almost Midnight, and the Sabbath draweth nigh. Oswald— (To the Priest.) Father. Abbot—Do you hear?—He shuts his ears. Proceed. Remembering that truth is God's own bread. He hungers for it. Oswald— Oh, I have not lied! I did not say that Father was a dog. Abbot—I know you have not, Oswald. The three years That you have been here never have been stained With pride and falsehood. Those that now malign, God knows where they shall go when the end comes. Oswald—I will explain just how it came about. Then, if you think I have done Father wrong, Tell me and let me do penance for it. I— I will not be here long. Abbot— My son! Oswald— I feel The darkness gathering round me. Abbot— Don't say that. You will be well again. You will be strong Some day, my son, and many years shall pass Ere the Lord calls you. Hath he not given proof? A shepherd to you, surely God hath been. Three nights ago at this time, where were you? Lying down in the gorge, and the night wind And sent his servant—for all things serve Him—And here you are safe in the fold again. That deed unclasped a volume of bright days. God doth not put his hand forth and lift up As he hath lifted you, and then cast down Ere the knees be straightened. Your tears should fall For joy, my son, not sorrow. Think how near Your foot was to the gates of darkness when God turned your face around and there flashed out A jeweled finger pointing toward a dawn—Far off it may be or it may be near—When the last shred of darkness shall vanish. Let those that hound you, fear, for God shall cleave A chasm in the earth for them; but you—No, no, my son, not darkness, light. God's light And glory from the new Jerusalem Will shine upon you on the mountain tops, If dreams are tapers lighting what is to be, As some believe they are. (The Priest reaches under his gown and takes something in his right hand, and with the other draws the string from around his neck and drops it into his right hand, after which he pulls the sleeve down over it till only the knuckles are visible.) Therefore, my son, Lift up your face and let white words go forth And usher in the Sabbath. Truth in the heart Is fire under water, but on the lips It lighteth every man the Way of Life. (The Priest goes toward the chest near the door.) Benedict, will you do as Pilate did? Father Benedict—Is he the Lord? Abbot— He is— Father Benedict— Then who are you? Abbot—He is a child of our Lord's. Father Benedict— So am I. Abbot—So you are, Benedict, a full grown child. Father Benedict—Even if I don't pray here (With a disdainful motion toward the priedieu.) Abbot— A full grown child; Large enough, one would think, to have slain the wolf Of hate in you. (The Priest takes up the cloak from the chest and begins to put it on.) Is it the truth you fear? (A pause.) You dare to go out under the open sky With hatred in your heart, a night like this? (A pause.) If you go now I know the reason why. You fear to lay your heart down here and let The light shine on it with Oswald's, side by side. Oswald— (To the Abbot.) Father— Father Benedict— (Over his shoulder.) Call a dog Father? Abbot— Benedict, Exasperating beyond word in this Conduct of yours. You come up here as one Whose honor has been wounded, and you throw Your charge down and when Oswald takes it up To answer it, you will not hear him, but You slink away. A travesty on man Is he who has but one ear, and that filled With his own voice. (Rising.) But I will settle this. (Lifting his hand.) My son, I now absolve you from all— Father Benedict— (Turning quickly.) Hold! (He pulls his cloak around so as to hide his right hand, then comes forward.) Your haste to wash his heart is evidence— Abbot—You tacitly admit your charge is false By the eagerness— Father Benedict—What are you talking of? Abbot—Your eagerness to get out in the dark. Father Benedict—Who said that I was going? (To Oswald.) Now then, you Lay your heart down under the lamplight here, And I will show a hunch-backed devil in it. Abbot—Tell us, my son, just how it came about. Let truth spring out upon the table armed. (He resumes his seat.) Oswald—When Father spoke this morning of a chase, A stag pursued by hounds and things like that, I simply said that— Father Benedict—"Simply said!" Oswald— I said— Father Benedict—I was one of the hounds, the talbot hound That led the pack. Oswald— Why, Father! Father Benedict— (Advancing toward him.) You say that A second time, and by the— Abbot— Benedict! Sprinkled with eyes, a wheel of God's own car Attends our brother. You would best beware. You know God hath him circled round about With that that shall uproot the steadfast hills. (Through the door, rear. Louis enters, carrying a flagon and a silver cup, his face showing terror. Seeing the Priest, he stops suddenly as though amazed, then enters slowly.) Father Benedict—I care not were he nine times circled round, As Hell is, I would— Abbot— (Lifting his hand.) Let me finish. Then, If with eyes open you will venture on, Do it. The night is wild. Heaven hath shaken down Many a pine upon the mountain tops, And steeples too, no doubt, and towns, who knows? No man can tell what dawn shall look on. Even This house of God—Hark how the thunders break! The winds are playing havoc with the world And Order frightened hath plunged into the sea. Louis—The southern gable has been blown down. Abbot—(After a look of surprise.) And Thrice in the mossed chapel tower the bell Hath rung, and no hand touched it; as it were A tocsin to alarm the world that Hell Hath landed. Though the seas be blown away And the everlasting hills be tumbled down, In summer calmness still the soul of man Stands like a fortress, sure against assault And terrible as a gorgon's head to Hell, And adamant to all her engines. But Let wrath break out inside, and crash! the gates Are down. Father Benedict— (Tapping himself upon his breast.) And Hell comes in. Abbot— And Hell goes in And ravins there. Father Benedict—In me. Abbot— The lightning hath No power to strike a tree while the blue sky Bends over it. But let the wrath of Hell Falls shattered. But God calls the cloud away And His winds blow it into nothingness. Father Benedict—The tree is—? Abbot— Oswald there. He stands secure. Father Benedict—And the cloud—? Abbot— You. You blacken over him And, charged with passion, make an atmosphere Of sulphur and in it, as in native air, Hell slips her flame and the trunk tumbles down To darkness. But God calls the cloud away To judgment, and its shadow is seen no more. If you will venture further in your wrath, Do it, for I have done. (A pause.) Very well, then. You may resume, my— Oswald— I will undergo Whatever ordeal Father may suggest; Will walk hot irons or put my hand in fire Or anything. Abbot— You hear that, Benedict? Father Benedict—He knows the Pope has banned the ordeal. (To Oswald with scorn.) Brave! Oswald—I call the saints— Father Benedict— (To Louis.) Do I look like a hound? Oswald—I said you spoke as those that hunt— Father Benedict— By that Meaning that I should tarre them on him. Oswald—(With a puzzled look.) On Me? Abbot—How did you come to say it, Oswald? Oswald—I grew up, Father, in a forest where Men used to hunt, and I have often sat In winter round their fires and heard them tell Of a chase my mind went back— Abbot— Did you say this After he told you of the hunter's dream? Oswald—Dream? Father Benedict—I told? I did not tell him. (Instantly the Abbot frowns silence at the Priest.) Speak out. Abbot—Non somnium venatoris.— Oswald— What dream? Priest— (Contemptuously.) As if he did not know it! Abbot— (Agitated.) Ne—ne dic! Non scit somnium. Priest— (Opening wide his eyes.) That's the trick, then! I'm to believe that, am I? Oswald— Father, what—? Father Benedict—I'll tell you what. The hunter— Abbot— Benedict! Father Benedict—If he don't know the dream, I'll tell him. Macias saw a pack of— Abbot—(Striking the table.) Will you stop? Eum ad insaniam adiges. Father Benedict—Let it drive him mad. (As though provoked beyond expression, the Abbot passes his hand across his brow and casts a scornful glance toward the Priest.) Abbot— Oswald, you go back Into your cloister. Oswald— Drive who mad, Father? Father Benedict—You. The hunter saw the furious hounds of Hell Chasing you up a mountain, while a storm— Abbot—Benedict, God's curse— Father Benedict— On his enemies? Abbot— On— Father Benedict— (Stretching out his right arm.) On those that aid them? Abbot— Yes, and on— Father Benedict— Him, then. (From his right hand he drops the silver crucifix and, with the forefinger of his left, points at Oswald. The latter starts, shrinking in terror from the curse. The Abbot and Louis, dumbfounded, stare wide-eyed at the crucifix which dangles from its cord about the Priest's finger. The latter, after regarding with an expression of triumph the astonishment of the Abbot, lets the crucifix fall to the table and, reaching across to the other side, pulls the flagon over to himself and proceeds to pour out a cup of wine.) You're a smart set. You've wormed your way around To let him out of calling me a dog; Now let him out of that. You've made it seem— (He sips the wine.) Abbot—Where did you find it? Father Benedict— To yourselves, no doubt, That he was ignorant of the dream when he Insinuated that I led the pack That chased him. (After a sip of wine.) Or would lead it. Abbot— Where did you Find it? Father Benedict—Where do you suppose? Louis— In the brook? Father Benedict—A cauldron of hell-broth would be nearer it. And you? (The Abbot shakes his head.) On his best-beloved. Louis— On Pierre? Father Benedict— On the dwarf. (He drinks.) Wages for his services, I suppose. (While the Priest drains the cup, the Abbot nods to Louis, who steps quickly toward Oswald as if to hurry him out.) Father Benedict—Hold up! You let him stay. Oswald—(Excitedly.) You had no right— Father Benedict— (Lifting his hand.) It's my turn to explain. (He begins to fill the cup.) Abbot— Oswald, retire. Oswald—I want to clear myself. Father Benedict— Clear! Let him stay. (Cup in hand, to the Abbot.) After your pretty speech this morning I, Reaching the village, found your monk, here, and Jardin at swords' points. Some one had espied The dwarf, it seems, in town. And the people, Remembering what he did the other night, Shouted, and the Bailiff's voice rang loud For vengeance. Oswald— But 'twas the boy— Louis— You be still. Father Benedict—Jardin proposed that they should burn him. He Opposed it, fought it, he did. Just then I Rode in. Jardin appealed to me, and I Urged them to seize the devil. Then it was This upstart here let loose his venomous, Vile, hell-suggested intimation that I had turned hound. Oswald— I did not— Father Benedict— Not a word. The upshot of it all was—Ah, but God Will pour his wrath out on your head for this! In view of what then happened, I now call To witness that these mountains shall be cleared Of heathen; that the dews of heaven shall fall Baptizing bodies of the unbaptized Stiff among the wild-flowers. For this young week, That in this storm hath stepped upon the world, Shall see a storm more terrible than this On mountain tops uprooting human trees And choking Death and Hell and Darkness. Or let the infant Sabbath, born this hour, Put not a foot on earth, but like a bird Wander upon the winds, and in the dark Grope for the morning star and find it not. Let the gates of the morning be shut and let no bell Wake up the world, unless it wake to see Death ravining on the mountains and white Faith Painting her banners there in heathen blood. But Mercy shall be shut up in the caves, For this accursed deed shall be tracked down, And Vengeance ranging like a wild beast—Thou, Above these maddening winds that wreck this world, Hear me, hear me, HEAR ME. Thou in heaven! (Out of breath.) And you—and you who caused all this, may God— Abbot—Benedict! Father Benedict—But let God have his— (He swallows the wine.) His will. And he will have it, mark you that, young man. (To the Abbot.) Strange are the ways God hath of rousing up The slothful to a work he long since laid Upon the world and the world shirked it. But It shall be done now, it shall be done now. If for three years the heathen on the heights Have served their idols, in less than three days Lead the chase yonder, Father, lead it there! Beneath them shake the mountains. Let this hand Strike for Thee there, and serve Thee, striking them, That this accursed deed may smell no more, A putrid carcass rotting under heaven. This is how God hath roused us up at last. (He drains the cup and sets it down.) My people armed with vengeance had swung down And reached the bridge, and Jardin, valiant man, Soldier of God, Knight Templar of the Cross, Who in the heathen land fought for ten years To stamp out Satan, even in his old age A furnace burning with the breath of God And firing those about him to the work Of ridding these mountains of the heathen, he—May God reward him for it in the world Without end, Amen—he had grabbed the dwarf To drag him off and burn him— Oswald— It was wrong— Father Benedict—His blood is on your hands. Oswald—(Frantically.) You murdered him! You had no cause to kill him. Father Benedict— I!. Hear that. Oswald—The boy had done no harm. The night I fell 'Twas he who— Louis—(Seizing him.) Will you hush? Abbot—(White with fear.) Oswald, retire. Your fever—you're excited. (Rising.) Benedict, Don't press this matter further—now. Father Benedict—(Bewildered.) The boy! Abbot—Louis, take him— Father Benedict— No cause to kill the boy! Oswald—He— Louis— Father has forbidden it. Father Benedict— Um-hm! I think I see—I think—I think I see. Abbot—What? Father Benedict—So he told you it was the dwarf, eh? Louis— (All the while shoving Oswald toward the rear door.) Just his imagination Father. I— I was the one who found him at the gate. He knew no more about it than a stone. 'Twas night; the stars were shooting in the— Father Benedict— When? Louis—When he was brought up. Why he— Abbot—(Quickly.) Louis! (Searching the Priest's face.) You asked If he told us—? Father Benedict—It was the dwarf was killed. Abbot—He told us that you had burned him. Father Benedict—(Fiercely to Oswald.) God shall burn You, griffon, son of Tophet, damned thing! (Terrified at the dark in the corridor and with a wild expression upon his face, Oswald clutches hysterically at the door jambs.) Oswald—No, no, no, no! (Piteously, as he is shoved along through the hall.) Father, Father! Father Benedict— Call Hell! I pray to God— Abbot— Breathe no curse, Benedict. I will inquire into this affair. If he hath done aught culpable— Father Benedict— If! If! Abbot—If he hath spoken unbecomingly— Father Benedict—Is Jardin's life then nothing? I suppose Not, to you. (He turns and goes toward the door, left.) Abbot— What? Father Benedict— I suppose not, to you. Abbot—You mean to say— Father Benedict— Go your way; I go mine. Abbot—To say the dwarf killed— Father Benedict— You have espoused the cause of the guilty. Abbot— Of the guilty? I espoused? (Following with the light.) Don't tell me Oswald had a hand in this. Benedict, this is pure malignity. Father Benedict—And no mouth in it, either, I suppose. Abbot—You mean he instigated this attack? Father Benedict— (At the door, buckling his cloak about him.) Go your way; I go mine. Abbot— I don't believe it. I don't believe it. It smacks too like the charge That he called you a dog. If you can prove That any word of his caused Jardin's death, I will attend to him. Father Benedict—By cursing me. Abbot—You know why I— Father Benedict— You needn't apologize. Abbot—You, Benedict, not I, are needing grace. You have assailed a child of God, and you Know what our Lord said: "'Twere better a mill-stone Were hanged about his neck and he were flung Into the sea, than offend one of these." You even seemed to take delight, to relish Harrowing his soul up with the hunter's dream And breaching it for horror to peep through. Father Benedict—You wait. (He reaches down behind the chest.) Abbot— God will hold you responsible If anything should happen to him. Father Benedict— You Take care he does not visit you. Abbot— Just now You said yourself that it was you who urged Jardin to seize the dwarf. Father Benedict— And so I did. Abbot—Whose fault is it if the dwarf killed him, then? Father Benedict—We will let God decide whose fault— Move this. Abbot— (Setting the lamp down upon the floor.) You even said Oswald opposed it, and For that just now you blamed him. Father Benedict— You think you Understand everything. You think you do. (They pull the chest from the wall.) Abbot—Then tell me. Father Benedict— (Reaching down and getting his staff.) The dwarf did not kill him. Abbot— How? Is he not dead? Father Benedict—By this time, he may be. Abbot—I still don't see where Oswald's fault comes in. (He takes up the lamp.) Father Benedict—We will let God decide whose fault it is. (He goes out.) Abbot—How did it happen? Father Benedict—God was there; ask him. (Louis reappears.) Abbot—Stay, Benedict, tell me explicitly— Father Benedict— This is the last time you will see me here. Abbot—Eh? (Holding the light above his head.) What do you propose to do? Father Benedict— You wait. Abbot—I fear for you, unless you quench your wrath. (A moment later, he turns back.) Louis—Again safe. Abbot— Barely. Louis— What was that he said? The last time he would come here? Abbot— I hope so. (Thunder.) Louis—And don't let Oswald— Abbot— Close tight the shutters. Louis—And don't let Oswald go down there again. We would be risking all that we have gained. The brothers, begging in the town to-day, Brought in four hundred franks, a silver cup, Three rings, a pair of bracelets, and a pearl Big as a pea. Abbot— A very good day's work. Louis—If this keeps up, the chest won't hold it all. Abbot— (Suddenly, glancing about upon the table.) Benedict—did he take—the crucifix? Louis— (At the window.) Oswald took it.—Do you think Benedict Found it where he said he— Abbot—(Aghast.) Oswald! Louis— Why? Abbot—The hunter saw it blood-stained in his dream. (A gust of wind blows out the light in his hand.) Louis—Perhaps it got blood on it when he fell. Benedict may have washed it off. I thought It might help quiet him. Shall I get it? Abbot— No; You may be right. Louis— Still, if you think— Abbot— You fetch— I'll take the lamp and cup; you fetch the wine. I will have Pierre watch with him to-night. (Louis turns back to the window. The Abbot relights his lamp at the little taper in the wall and then goes left.) Louis—By the way, Father, old Andrew has gone mad. The storm has blown his mind's last spark out. Yes; He tried to take the bracelets from Luigi And would have dragged the chest out. Abbot— And did he? Louis— No; But it was all that four of us could do To hold him. He is on the seas again, And peers abroad and swears he sees great ships— (Out in the storm is heard the booming of a bell. They listen. Louis crosses himself and mutters.) Sed libera nos a malo. Father— (The Abbot lifts his hand.) What Do you think it means? (A pause.) Abbot— Come to my room. (To himself, as he goes left.) If The etherial gods, as the wise poet says, Dwell afar off and in the affairs of men Interfere not, our domes shall rise yet. (Turning.) Louis, Bring the scroll. Louis— Which? Abbot— Lucretius. On the floor. (In the doorway he stops and listens as for the bell. As he goes out.) If. (Louis takes up the parchment which lies upon the floor near the Abbot's chair and, going to the rear door, shuts it and slides the bolt. He then blows out the taper in the wall.) Louis— (Listening.) The witches have their way in heaven to-night. (He comes to the table and, taking up the flagon, goes out, left.) SCENE THREE—The court yard of the abbey, as in Scene Three of the Second Act. A storm is heard roaring through the mountains, with an occasional rumble of thunder and in the darkness sudden luster as of lightning far off. In these flashes, the scene gleams wet as after a hard rain. From the right, comes a faint sound as of a stick tapping on stone, and soon along the side of the dormitory old Andrew appears, carrying a staff with which he is feeling his way through the darkness. Andrew—Here a black squall, sou'-wester, south-south-west. Star—star gone! Where's the pole? (Shouting.) Furl the main, lads! On she spins, whirling past world on world. Hip! Feel her—feel her heave! (Shouting.) Take in the mizzen! A thousand thousand fathoms down, the moon Shines like a fish. (He peers around the corner.) Black as—Hear the masts crack. Watch Alvinach! Watch for the ninth wave, lads! (Lightning.) Put out that broom! You'll have the witches here. Mother, they've burnt the baby!—Hya! Lie down. (He walks out in the court.) Here's a night, God bless us! Here's a gale To make the sea-girls sing. Scylla! Carribee! Shake your dead bones! Shake 'em and sing! Blow, then. Growl, Scylla! Growl, ocean-bitch, bark and growl! Now, Carribee, whirl! Shake the big gulf and slush! Gulp down the worlds with stars and moons and moons! (Lightning.) Yip, there they go! Suck 'em down! suck 'em down! Arcturus down! Down Cancer! down the Scales! Whirled into the pit! Weigh the devils, Scales! Weigh the big Serpent! Weigh Beelzebub! Hands ahelm! Ahull, boys! Lash her to the lea! Lash her to the lea! Splinters! Watch out, lads! (The bell sounds in the chapel tower.) Who's dead? Who's dead, i' the Devil's name? Fetch me those rings. Now throw him overboard. Scrub these stains, Luigi. Keep the dog back there. This gold will glitter on the Judgment Day. I hear you whispering, scoundrels!—Hya! Lie down. (He walks back, singing.) There's wind up in her pitch-black flag; There's foam around her keel. Now we're scudding. Right through the Dipper— (Lightning.) Ahoy! Elmo! Elmo! Light up! light up, man! Argo's to the larboard! Signal her! Ahoy! Ship ahoy, Cap! Ship ahoy! Ship full of gold! She's whirling south! Man the boats! Lay to! lay to! Here's a squall winks at the pirates, lads! Mount her, hardies! Break her hatches! Gold under 'em. (Singing.) There's foam up in her pitch-black flag; There's wind around her keel.... (Shouting.) Watch Alvinach, though! Keep the lantern dry! (He stops and listens.) I hear you whispering, scoundrels!—-Hya! Lie down. Who said so? Louis lied. Stand back, I say! Four on an old man! Dogs! Let go my hair! (A loud clap of thunder.) The shrouds break now, God bless us! here's a wind Will blow us far off to the Pleiades And swamp us. (Lightning.) That was the Bear went by. And Virgo has sunk here jewels in the south. Sink 'em deep, girl! Pirates abroad.—What's this? (Calling down.) Got it, boys? Got the gold? See it, see it shine! Throw your cloak over it. Don't let God see this. Ho, Prester John! sailing among the stars? Here's your chest, John! Here's your sparklers! Where is he? Where is he, boys? Throw the king overboard? Pitched him to Plato on his big fork, eh? Odi Persicos. Like their gold, though. Up, Up with it, lads. Heave, now. Chest broken open. Leak, gold, leak, leak! Here's your spring, Crashus! Here, Jew! here you can cool your tongue! Traders, drink! Drink, worms! Pigs! Pastors! Devils! Drink, drink! Everything drink! (Stooping down.) Here's a dead man's ring. Finger's in the coral. Bracelets and gems. Topaz from Tartary. Emeralds from the East. Garnets. Eh? Garter-buckles! (Reproachfully.) Lads! lads! (A glare of lightning reveals him with his hand close to his eyes.) "From Carlos." Chloe's gone bathing, Carlos. Turned cold nymph. Let go! Let go, I say! Androphanes! Strike him, Juba! Slash him with the broad-sword! You hand that back here, then. Hell-dog. Here's a widow's mite; bought a monk's prayer. Flip it into the sea. Judas! here you are! (Thunder.) Rumble on! Growl and growl! Who cares for Heaven now? Rain or not rain. We can fight, too, old boy. Wipe your lips, Scariot. Take the chamois bag. There's thirty-two. Off with you.—Wallets! Old coin! Rich man, miser, knave! Sick, eh? Quick, your gold! Take it to the priest, then you can jump Right through the needle's eye. (He gets down upon his knees.) Well, God bless us! Sacked the sea-king's coffers. See the pearls! Crescents and ear-bobs. Here's a brooch fine as Sparkles on Memnon's sister. What's this clammy thing? Cold, bloody hand! Hand with a locket in it! Unlock it. Ho! picture, eh? Say mamma, baby! Mamma's in the sea-weed. That's a foul deed. Throw your cloak over it. Don't let God see this. (Calling up.) Who's there? (Rising.) Who calls Andrew? Stand down on the ground. The lid is off. (Stooping.) Parchment deeds, eh? I. X. If Andrew's Andrew, then I. X. is eleven. What shines? Silver. (A pause.) Monk's cross. (A pause.) Wet. (Flash of lightning.) Red! (With horror.) Lads! lads! We'll sink for this, God bless us! Pretty muss! Who daubed it? (Thunder.) Hear that. Horror in the dark Doffs his big plume at this. And up there—Here! Wash it! wash it in the sea! In with the chest, lads! Murder like a foam-bird dashed upon the prow Shakes her red wings. And there—Look! (Shouting.) Wash it clean! Heaven's golden scales are rising from the deep! Off! lay her—lay her off, lads! They'll weigh us! (A sharp flash of lightning. Andrew is seen with his left hand up beside his head, which is drawn down, backing fearfully through the door into the dormitory. The thunder rumbling in the darkness sounds like the growl of an enormous wild beast.) |
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