They will beg a shelter for the night.
I will go down to the corridor,

And try to see that face once more;

It will do for the face of some beautiful Saint,

Or for one of the Maries I shall paint.

Goes out.

THE CLOISTERS.

The ABBOT ERNESTUS pacing to and fro.

SLOWLY, slowly up the wall

ABBOT.

Steals the sunshine, steals the shade;
Evening damps begin to fall,
Evening shadows are displayed.
Round me, o'er me, everywhere,
All the sky is grand with clouds,
And athwart the evening air

Wheel the swallows home in crowds.
Shafts of sunshine from the west

Paint the dusky windows red;
Darker shadows, deeper rest,
Underneath and overhead.
Darker, darker, and more wan,
In my breast the shadows fall;
Upward steals the life of man,
As the sunshine from the wall.
From the wall into the sky,
From the roof along the spire;
Ah, the souls of those that die
Are but sunbeams lifted higher.

Christ is arisen!

Enter PRINCE HENRY.

PRINCE HENRY.

ABBOT.

Amen! he is arisen!

His peace be with you!

PRINCE HENRY.

Here it reigns for ever!

The peace of God, that passeth understanding,
Reigns in these cloisters and these corridors.
Are you Ernestus, Abbot of the convent?

I am.

ABBOT.

PRINCE HENRY.

And I Prince Henry of Hoheneck,

Who crave your hospitality to-night.

ABBOT.

You are thrice welcome to our humble walls.
You do us honor; and we shall requite it,

I fear, but poorly, entertaining you

With Paschal eggs, and our poor convent wine,
The remnants of our Easter holidays.

PRINCE HENRY.

How fares it with the holy monks of Hirschau?
Are all things well with them?

ABBOT.

All things are well.

PRINCE HENRY.

A noble convent! I have known it long
By the report of travellers. I now see
Their commendations lag behind the truth.
You lie here in the valley of the Nagold
As in a nest: and the still river, gliding
Along its bed, is like an admonition

How all things pass. Your lands are rich and ample,
And your revenues large. God's benediction
Rests on your convent.

ABBOT.

By our charities

We strive to merit it. Our Lord and Master,
When he departed, left us in his will,
As our best legacy on earth, the poor!

These we have always with us; had we not,

Our hearts would grow as hard as are these stones.

PRINCE HENRY.

If I remember right, the Counts of Calva

Founded your convent.

ABBOT..

Even as you say.

PRINCE HENRY.

And, if I err not, it is very old.

АВВОТ.

Within these cloisters lie already buried
Twelve holy Abbots. Underneath the flags
On which we stand, the Abbot William lies,
Of blessed memory.

PRINCE HENRY.

And whose tomb is that,

Which bears the brass escutcheon?

ABBOT.

A benefactor's.

Conrad, a Count of Calva, he who stood

Godfather to our bells.

And holy men, I trust.

Learned and holy men.

PRINCE HENRY.
Your monks are learned

ABBOT.

There are among them
Yet in this age
We need another Hildebrand, to shake

And purify us like a mighty wind.

The world is wicked, and sometimes I wonder
God does not lose his patience with it wholly,

And shatter it like glass! Even here, at times,
Within these walls, where all should be at peace,
I have my trials. Time has laid his hand
Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it,
But as a harper lays his open palm
Upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations.
Ashes are on my head, and on my lips
Sackcloth, and in my breast a heaviness
And weariness of life, that makes me ready
To say to the dead Abbots under us,
"Make room for me!" Only I see the dusk
Of evening twilight coming, and have not
Completed half my task; and so at times
The thought of my short-coming in this life
Falls like a shadow on the life to come.

PRINCE HENRY.

We must all die, and not the old alone;
The young have no exemption from that doom.

АВВОТ.

Ah, yes! the young may die, but the old must! That is the difference.

PRINCE HENRY.

I have heard much laud

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

ABBOT.

That is indeed our boast. If you desire it,
You shall behold these treasures. And meanwhile
Shall the Refectorarius bestow

Your horses and attendants for the night.

They go in. The Vesper-bell rings.

THE CHAPEL.

Vespers; after which the monks retire, a chorister leading an old

monk who is blind.

PRINCE HENRY.

THEY are all gone, save one who lingers,

Absorbed in deep and silent prayer.

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

THE BLIND MONK.

Who is it that doth stand so near
His whispered words I almost hear?

PRINCE HENRY.

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

THE BLIND MONK.

Count Hugo once, but now the wreck
Of what I was. O Hoheneck!

The passionate will, the pride, the wrath
That bore me headlong on my path,