Part 41 (1/2)

SCENE--The Guest Room of the Convent.

HUGO, ERIC, and ORION. Enter URSULA, AGATHA, and Nuns.

Ursula: Hugo, we reject thine offers, Not that we can buy Safety from the Church's coffers, Neither can we fly.

Far too great the price they seek is, Let their lawless throng Come, we wait their coming; weak is Man, but G.o.d is strong.

Eric: Think again on our proposals: It will be too late When the robbers hold carousals On this side the gate.

Ursula: For myself I speak and others Weak and frail as I; We will not desert our brothers In adversity.

Hugo (to the Nuns): Does the Abbess thus advance her Will before ye all?

A Nun: We will stay.

Hugo: Is this thine answer, Agatha? The wall Is a poor protection truly, And the gates are weak, And the Nors.e.m.e.n most unruly.

Come, then.

A Nun (to Agatha): Sister, speak!

Orion (aside to Hugo): Press her! She her fears dissembling, Stands irresolute; She will yield--her limbs are trembling, Though her lips are mute.

[A trumpet is heard without.]

Eric: Hark! their savage war-horn blowing Chafes at our delay.

Hugo: Agatha, we must be going.

Come, girl!

Agatha (clinging to Ursula): Must I stay?

Ursula: Nay, my child, thou shalt not make me Judge; I cannot give Orders to a novice.

Agatha: Take me, Hugo! Let me live!

Eric (to Nuns): Foolish women! will ye tarry, Spite of all we say?

Hugo: Must we use our strength and carry You by force away?

Ursula: Bad enough thou art, Sir Norman, Yet thou wilt not do This thing. Shame!--on men make war, man, Not on women few.

Eric: Heed her not--her life she barters, Of her free accord, For her faith; and, doubtless, martyrs Have their own reward.

Ursula: In the Church's cause thy father Never grudged his blade-- Hugo, did he rue it?

Orion: Rather!

He was poorly paid.

Hugo: Abbess, this is not my doing; I have said my say; How can I avert the ruin, Even for a day, Since they count two hundred fairly, While we count a score; And thine own retainers barely Count a dozen more?

Agatha (kneeling to Ursula): Ah! forgive me, Lady Abbess, Bless me ere I go; She who under sod and slab is Lying, cold and low, Scarce would turn away in anger From a child so frail; Not dear life, but deadly danger, Makes her daughter quail.