Abbot. A benefactor’s.  Conrad, a Count of Calva, he who stood Godfather to our bells.

Prince Henry. Your monks are learned And holy men, I trust.

Abbot. There are among them
Learned and holy men.  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 shortcomings 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.

Abbot. 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!