(Goes out.)

* * * * *

THE CLOISTERS.

* * * * *

The ABBOT ERNESTUS pacing to and fro.

Abbot. Slowly, slowly up the wall
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.

          (Enter PRINCE HENRY.)

  Prince Henry. Christ is arisen!

Abbot. Amen! he is arisen!  His peace be with you!

Prince Henry. Here it reigns forever!  The peace of God, that passeth understanding, Reigns in these cloisters and these corridors, Are you Ernestus, Abbot of the convent?

  Abbot. I am.

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.

Abbot. 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?