Chapter 7

(Horrified, the monk stands for a moment, then goes slowlydown the steps across the court, every now and thenglancing back over his shoulder at the Abbot.)

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

(The Abbot bowshis head. Louis lifts his hand as a signal. Guido,crossing the court, stops and stands waiting.)

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

One breath of this would bring the rafters down.(A pause.)

Abbot—(Turning, with his eyes closed.)The other Bible, Guido.

(The monk quickens his step andenters the dormitory.)

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

Louis— And you knowSome of the brothers might tell Benedict,And he would send it blazing down to Rome.

Abbot—Lamp after lamp goes out for policy.

(He opens the gate through which Ely passed.)

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 himHe was unconscious. But from what he droppedYesterday in his cell, I am sure he knowsIt 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 thoughtSo monsterous as that devils had turned saintsAnd tripped the air with angels, hand in hand,Moving as musically as summer stars.Having no coin that bears the face of truthThey 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 prayedSome 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?

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 himHe was unconscious. But from what he droppedYesterday in his cell, I am sure he knowsIt 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 thoughtSo monsterous as that devils had turned saintsAnd tripped the air with angels, hand in hand,Moving as musically as summer stars.Having no coin that bears the face of truthThey 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 prayedSome 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?

(He starts toward the dormitory.)

Abbot—Stay.Louis—Supposing Oswald has already told?If he has, Benedict will come up hereRaging as upon a den of wolves. Then.If he should say: "Ha! So it was the dwarfAnd not an angel saved your monk. And hereYou pass the deed off as a miracleTo swell your abbey's revenues and robMe of the alms of my parishioners?"He sees me coming down the mountain sideAnd 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 GodWorking salvation? Do they? If they do,What means this storm of banners in the dawn,This, 'Dieu le volt!' and these bright harnassed knightsTrampling 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 EastTo smoke and break about the SepulcherIn hard white foam from which the ravens fly?Let Hell lead forth her legions from the pitImpervious 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 OswaldTold me himself it was the witch's son."Abbot—"Mon Dieu again! Could Father keep his witsAfter 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 knightThat hath spilt blood about the Sepulcher,We carve an angel that shall plead our causeThrough all the fields and villages of FranceAnd far on into the North and—Ah, this train!This train shall be the trumpet that shall blowOur 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 peaksWhere, in the gray dawn, gleams of vanishing wingsShone on the mountain snows like molten gold.You understand? About the witch's son,Adeste cum silentio.

Abbot—Stay.

Louis—Supposing Oswald has already told?If he has, Benedict will come up hereRaging as upon a den of wolves. Then.If he should say: "Ha! So it was the dwarfAnd not an angel saved your monk. And hereYou pass the deed off as a miracleTo swell your abbey's revenues and robMe of the alms of my parishioners?"He sees me coming down the mountain sideAnd 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 GodWorking salvation? Do they? If they do,What means this storm of banners in the dawn,This, 'Dieu le volt!' and these bright harnassed knightsTrampling 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 EastTo smoke and break about the SepulcherIn hard white foam from which the ravens fly?Let Hell lead forth her legions from the pitImpervious 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 OswaldTold me himself it was the witch's son."

Abbot—"Mon Dieu again! Could Father keep his witsAfter 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 knightThat hath spilt blood about the Sepulcher,We carve an angel that shall plead our causeThrough all the fields and villages of FranceAnd far on into the North and—Ah, this train!This train shall be the trumpet that shall blowOur 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 peaksWhere, in the gray dawn, gleams of vanishing wingsShone on the mountain snows like molten gold.You understand? About the witch's son,Adeste cum silentio.

(After passing out through the gate, the Abbot turns andcalls after Louis, who is crossing the court.)

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.

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.

(Drawing himself up as Rene and Simon come from behindthe chapel.)

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

I am the Prior. Down, St. Peter! John!

Rene—(To Simon.)Matthew, thou publican!

Simon— Bacchus, thou saint!

(He points forward to the corner of the dormitory wherePierre and his companions enter with the wine vesselswhich they proceed to place beside the wall.)

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 chalicesLay 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 prayerTo 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 trainAnd 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 godAre ramping down the mountain, yoked in vinesWhose dangling clusters sway their tawny backsAnd purple all the sky above the peaks.Limp in the car the noisy BromiosTips the full cup and stains his ivory breast.Look, yonder his herald, plump Silenus, comes!

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 chalicesLay 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 prayerTo 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 trainAnd 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 godAre ramping down the mountain, yoked in vinesWhose dangling clusters sway their tawny backsAnd purple all the sky above the peaks.Limp in the car the noisy BromiosTips the full cup and stains his ivory breast.Look, yonder his herald, plump Silenus, comes!

(He points up the mountain over the gate through whichthe Abbot passed.)

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—(ToFirst Monk.)If Father Benedict had had the trainOr been among the muleteers, I'd sayNo 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—

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—(ToFirst Monk.)If Father Benedict had had the trainOr been among the muleteers, I'd sayNo 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—

(Dressed for travel, appearing at the corner of the dormitory.)

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

Are they in sight yet?

Pierre— It was not the train.'Twas Father Benedict.

(Louis stands as one stunned.)

What can it mean?

(Louis crosses the court and takes a position at the cornerof the chapel near the gate.)

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

First Monk—He never came as early as this before.

Second Monk—And see how worried Father looks.

Pierre— I fearThat some one has told Oswald of the dream,And he has fainted.

First Monk— I will loiter about.

(With his eyes upon the ground the monk saunters overtoward the chapel steps and, apparently absorbed intelling his beads, loiters about in order to overhear theconversation. The Abbot enters, followed by FatherBenedict leading an ass. Green twigs are stuck aboutthe bridle. The Abbot appears thoughtful.)

Abbot—What do you mean by wolves?Father Benedict— Wild paws that preyUpon 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 someHave even made this abbey here their den?Father Benedict—Would make it so.Abbot— And from these holy hallsSteal forth and prey—well, let us say, uponYour 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 landsWith 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 leashAnd seems to slumber while the singing foeSilver their scythes beneath the harvest moon.But when the season plumps the golden earsAnd 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 heardOf Bacchus revelling in the bubbling must,The golden trumpets of the sun in heavenProclaim a festival and wake the skies.Angels come tripping to the foaming vatsAnd, while the devils tread the vintage out,Brim their bright casks with gushing purple meathTo 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 shearsThe 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 perceiveClearly, I think;—well, in this case, I say,It does not follow that the Master getsLess tribute from the flock; for, Benedict,Remember this: When God's bright seraphimCollect His revenues, it matters notWhether 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 woolThat 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 flukesPut 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 wolfHad 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 slopeAnd say: "Here went a devil up the rocks."Father Benedict—It is too dark.Abbot— 'Twill ever be too darkTo 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 ItalyThere hangs an ancient chime of seven bells.Oft when a child I heard them in the dawnSinging like angels in the Apennines,Their tones so blended, so harmoniouslyTuned 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 namesArchangels wear. Well, in a storm one nightRaphael went down. Some say a huge black handStrangled 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 spheresAnd hung them in the belfry of the nightTo 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 handAnd 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 pathAnd you shall see your seraph of the nightBleed out his strength upon the spears of dawn.'Twas thought that Raphael's tumbling down the rocksHad wrecked his silver voice, and so he layThree years half-sunken in a slimy marsh,His golden throat choked up with water-weedsAnd fetid lilies breathing of the swamp.'Twas said that oft when morning woke the bellsUpon the heights, a drowned voice was heard,A strangled booming in the marsh-fogs. Well.One Sabbath while the morning star still burnedA lone white taper, on a sudden from his couchThe ancient bellman started. The old chimeWas singing in its tower, and, like a thrushThat eyeless hath escaped a narrow cage,The voice of Raphael on his bough againRang through the woods. The eagles on the cragsShook 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.

Abbot—What do you mean by wolves?

Father Benedict— Wild paws that preyUpon 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 someHave even made this abbey here their den?

Father Benedict—Would make it so.

Abbot— And from these holy hallsSteal forth and prey—well, let us say, uponYour 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 landsWith 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 leashAnd seems to slumber while the singing foeSilver their scythes beneath the harvest moon.But when the season plumps the golden earsAnd 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 heardOf Bacchus revelling in the bubbling must,The golden trumpets of the sun in heavenProclaim a festival and wake the skies.Angels come tripping to the foaming vatsAnd, while the devils tread the vintage out,Brim their bright casks with gushing purple meathTo 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 shearsThe 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 perceiveClearly, I think;—well, in this case, I say,It does not follow that the Master getsLess tribute from the flock; for, Benedict,Remember this: When God's bright seraphimCollect His revenues, it matters notWhether 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 woolThat 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 flukesPut 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 wolfHad 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 slopeAnd say: "Here went a devil up the rocks."

Father Benedict—It is too dark.

Abbot— 'Twill ever be too darkTo 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 ItalyThere hangs an ancient chime of seven bells.Oft when a child I heard them in the dawnSinging like angels in the Apennines,Their tones so blended, so harmoniouslyTuned 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 namesArchangels wear. Well, in a storm one nightRaphael went down. Some say a huge black handStrangled 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 spheresAnd hung them in the belfry of the nightTo 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 handAnd 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 pathAnd you shall see your seraph of the nightBleed out his strength upon the spears of dawn.'Twas thought that Raphael's tumbling down the rocksHad wrecked his silver voice, and so he layThree years half-sunken in a slimy marsh,His golden throat choked up with water-weedsAnd fetid lilies breathing of the swamp.'Twas said that oft when morning woke the bellsUpon the heights, a drowned voice was heard,A strangled booming in the marsh-fogs. Well.One Sabbath while the morning star still burnedA lone white taper, on a sudden from his couchThe ancient bellman started. The old chimeWas singing in its tower, and, like a thrushThat eyeless hath escaped a narrow cage,The voice of Raphael on his bough againRang through the woods. The eagles on the cragsShook 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.

(With his eyes burning and fixed upon the Priest.)

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?

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?

(For a moment they look into one another's eyes, the Abbotwith a penetrating glance, the Priest with a look ofblank amazement. The Abbot quickly drops his headand walks aside, his face almost white, the drawn mouthand furrowed brow showing a mind in desperation, castingabout for an escape.)

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

(The monk, who a few yards back has been pacing to andfro in order to overhear the conversation, has stoppedand stands observing them. He has the same bewilderedexpression as the Priest. The face of Louis near thecorner of the chapel reflects the palor and perturbationof the Abbot's.)

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

(His brow darkens and he turns aside. Suddenly his facelights up as with a revelation.)

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.

(He turns away. While the Priest and the Abbot walkabout, each occupied with his own thought, Pierre andhis two companions approach and stand a few yardsaway, observing them.)

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—(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.

(A pause.)

Abbot—I do not understand you, Benedict.Father Benedict—(Turning and facing the Abbot.)Why do you hide it from me?Abbot— What are youHiding from me?Father Benedict— You feared that I would shrinkTo 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 GodHad revealed it only to you?Abbot— I was not sureThat what I had in mind you had in mind.Father Benedict—And you thought you would feel about and seeIf I knew it. And if I did not, "Truth, retire.Do not obtrude yourself on Benedict.He knows the hunter's dream. If he cannotDiscover whose hands those were the hunter sawReach through the green boughs of the Tree of LifeAnd 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 askedWhose hand it was that lifted up that bell,I knew that you were feeling me aboutTo see if I knew that the hand was mine.Had I not known it, do you suppose I thinkYou 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 withWhite 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 enoughThat you stand there triumphant while I hereLie prostrate with my gray hairs in the dust?

Abbot—I do not understand you, Benedict.

Father Benedict—(Turning and facing the Abbot.)Why do you hide it from me?

Abbot— What are youHiding from me?

Father Benedict— You feared that I would shrinkTo 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 GodHad revealed it only to you?

Abbot— I was not sureThat what I had in mind you had in mind.

Father Benedict—And you thought you would feel about and seeIf I knew it. And if I did not, "Truth, retire.Do not obtrude yourself on Benedict.He knows the hunter's dream. If he cannotDiscover whose hands those were the hunter sawReach through the green boughs of the Tree of LifeAnd 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 askedWhose hand it was that lifted up that bell,I knew that you were feeling me aboutTo see if I knew that the hand was mine.Had I not known it, do you suppose I thinkYou 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 withWhite 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 enoughThat you stand there triumphant while I hereLie prostrate with my gray hairs in the dust?

(He bows his head and walks to the rear.)

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

(Biting down his smile, Louis advances, his face assuminga doleful expression.)

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 feelsThe issue of this bout. Amazed I stoodJust yonder by the chapel steps and watchedYour 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 feelYour reached your spear and slipped his lady's glove—Father Benedict—His lady's glove?Louis— The secret from his heartIn spite of all his desperate guarding it.

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 feelYour reached your spear and slipped his lady's glove—

Father Benedict—His lady's glove?

Louis— The secret from his heartIn spite of all his desperate guarding it.

(Guido comes from the dormitory with a large book underhis arm. As he passes toward the chapel he turns hisburden toward the Abbot, who gives it an unconcernedglance and walks right.)

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