_A Room, the building of the Inquisition of Granada, lit by stained
window, picturing St. James of Spain._
_Monks and Inquisitors._
_First Monk._ Will you not hear my last new song?
_First Inquisitor._ Hush, hush!
So she must burn you say.
_Second Inquisitor._ She must in truth.
_First Inquisitor._ Will he not spare her life? How would one matter
When there are many?
_Second Monk._ Ebremar will stamp
This heathen horde away. You need not hope;
And know you not she kissed that pious child
With poisonous lips, and he is pining since?
_First Monk._ You're full of wordiness. Come, hear my song.
_Second Monk._ In truth an evil race; why strive for her,
A little Moorish girl?
_Second Inquisitor._ Small worth.
_First Monk._ My song--
_First Inquisitor._ I had a sister like her once my friend.
[_Touching the first Monk on the shoulder._]
Where is our brother Peter? When you're nigh,
He is not far. I'd have him speak for her.
I saw his jovial mood bring once a smile
To sainted Ebremar's sad eyes. I think
He loves our brother Peter in his heart.
If Peter would but ask her life--who knows?
_First Monk._ He digs his cabbages. He brings to mind
That song I've made--is of a Russian tale
Of Holy Peter of the Burning Gate:
A saint of Russia in a vision saw
[_Sings_]
A stranger new arisen wait
By the door of Peter's gate,
And he shouted Open wide
Thy sacred door, but Peter cried,
No, thy home is deepest hell,
Deeper than the deepest well.
Then the stranger softly crew
Cock-a-doodle-doodle-doo!
Answered Peter: Enter in
Friend; but 'twere a deadly sin
Ever more to speak a word
Of any unblessed earthly bird.
_First Inquisitor._ Be still, I hear the step of Ebremar.
Yonder he comes; bright-eyed, and hollow-cheeked
From fasting--see, the red light slanting down
From the great painted window wraps his brow,
As with an aureole.
[_Ebremar enters--they all bow to him._]
_First Inquisitor._ My suit to you--
_Ebremar._ I will not hear; the Moorish girl must die.
I will burn heresy from this mad earth,
And--
_First Inquisitor._ Mercy is the manna of the world.
_Ebremar._ The wages of sin is death.
_Second Monk._ No use.
_First Inquisitor._ My lord, if it must be, I pray descend
Yourself into the dungeon 'neath our feet
And importune with weighty words this Moor,
That she foreswear her heresies and save
Her soul from seas of endless flame in hell.
_Ebremar._ I speak alone with servants of the Cross
And dying men--and yet--but no, farewell.
_Second Monk._ No use.
_Ebremar._ Away! [_They go._] Hear oh! thou enduring God,
Who giveth to the golden-crested wren
Her hanging mansion. Give to me, I pray,
The burthen of thy truth. Reach down thy hands
And fill me with thy rage, that I may bruise
The heathen. Yea, and shake the sullen kings
Upon their thrones. The lives of men shall flow
As quiet as the little rivulets
Beneath the sheltering shadow of thy Church,
And thou shalt bend, enduring God, the knees
Of the great warriors whose names have sung
The world to its fierce infancy again.