Yes; lift your princely hand, and take Revenge, if 't is revenge you seek, Then pardon me, for Jesus' sake!

_Prince Henry._ Arise, Count Hugo! let there be No farther strife nor enmity Between us twain; we both have erred!

Too rash in act, too wroth in word, From the beginning have we stood In fierce, defiant att.i.tude, Each thoughtless of the other's right, And each reliant on his might.

But now our souls are more subdued; The hand of G.o.d, and not in vain, Has touched us with the fire of pain.

Let us kneel down, and side by side Pray, till our souls are purified, And pardon will not be denied!

(_They kneel._)

THE REFECTORY.

_Gaudiolum of Monks at midnight. LUCIFER disguised as a Friar._

_Friar Paul (sings)._ Ave! color vini clari, Dulcis potus, non aman, Tua nos inebriari Digneris potentia!

_Friar Cuthbert._ Not so much noise, my worthy freres, You'll disturb the Abbot at his prayers.

_Friar Paul (sings)._ O! quam placens in colore!

O! quam fragrans in odore!

O! quam sapidum in ore!

Dulce linguse vinculum!

_Friar Cuthbert._ I should think your tongue had broken its chain!

_Friar Paul (sings)._ Felix venter quern intrabis!

Felix guttur quod rigabis!

Felix os quod tu lavabis!

Et beata l.a.b.i.a!

_Friar Cuthbert._ Peace! I say, peace!

Will you never cease!

You will rouse up the Abbot, I tell you again!

_Friar John._ No danger! to-night he will let us alone, As I happen to know he has guests of his own.

_Friar Cuthbert._ Who are they?

_Friar John._ A German Prince and his train, Who arrived here just before the rain.

There is with him a damsel fair to see, As slender and graceful as a reed!

When she alighted from her steed, It seemed like a blossom blown from a tree.

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

(_Kisses the girl at his side_.)

_Friar John._ Come, old fellow, drink down to your peg!

do not drink any farther, I beg!

_Friar Paul (sings)._ In the days of gold, The days of old, Cross of wood And bishop of gold!

_Friar Cuthbert (to the girl)._ What an infernal racket and din!

No need not blush so, that's no sin.

You look very holy in this disguise, Though there's something wicked in your eyes!

_Friar Paul (continues.)_ Now we have changed That law so good, To cross of gold And bishop of wood!

_Friar Cuthbert._ I like your sweet face under a hood.

Sister! how came you into this way?

_Girl._ It was you, Friar Cuthbert, who led me astray.

Have you forgotten that day in June, When the church was so cool in the afternoon, And I came in to confess my sins?

That is where my ruin begins.

_Friar John._ What is the name of yonder friar, With an eye that glows like a coal of fire, And such a black ma.s.s of tangled hair?

_Friar Paul._ He who is sitting there, With a rollicking, Devil may care, Free and easy look and air, As if he were used to such feasting and frollicking?

_Friar John._ The same.

_Friar Paul._ He's a stranger. You had better ask his name, And where he is going, and whence he came.

_Friar John._ Hallo! Sir Friar!

_Friar Paul._ You must raise your voice a little higher, He does not seem to hear what you say.

Now, try again! He is looking this way.

_Friar John._ Hallo! Sir Friar, We wish to inquire Whence you came, and where you are going, And anything else that is worth the knowing.

So be so good as to open your head.

_Lucifer._ I am a Frenchman born and bred, Going on a pilgrimage to Rome.

My home Is the convent of St. Gildas de Rhuys, Of which, very like, you never have heard.

_Monks._ Never a word!

_Lucifer._ You must know, then, it is in the diocese Called the Diocese of Vannes, In the province of Brittany.

From the gray rocks of Morbihan It overlooks the angry sea; The very seash.o.r.e where, In his great despair, Abbot Abelard walked to and fro, Filling the night with woe, And wailing aloud to the merciless seas The name of his sweet Heloise!

Whilst overhead The convent windows gleamed as red As the fiery eyes of the monks within, Who with jovial din Gave themselves up to all kinds of sin!

Ha! that is a convent! that is an abbey!

Over the doors, None of your death-heads carved in wood, None of your Saints looking pious and good, None of your Patriarchs old and shabby!

But the heads and tusks of boars, And the cells Hung all round with the fells of the fallow-deer, And then what cheer!

What jolly, fat friars, Sitting round the great, roaring fires, Roaring louder than they, With their strong wines, And their concubines, And never a bell, With its swagger and swell, Calling you up with a start of affright In the dead of night, To send you grumbling down dark stairs, To mumble your prayers, But the cheery crow Of c.o.c.ks in the yard below, After daybreak, an hour or so, And the barking of deep-mouthed hounds, These are the sounds That, instead of bells, salute the ear.

And then all day Up and away Through the forest, hunting the deer!

Ah, my friends! I'm afraid that here You are a little too pious, a little too tame, And the more is the shame, It is the greatest folly Not to be jolly; That's what I think!

Come, drink, drink, Drink, and die game!