the bosom of France: 
    Returning home true protestant, you call’d me
    Your little heretic nun.  How timid-bashful
    Did John salute his love, being newly seen. 
    Sir Rowland term’d it a rare modesty,
    And prais’d it in a youth.

    JOHN
    Now Margaret weeps herself.
    (A noise of bells heard.)

    MARGARET
    Hark the bells, John.

    JOHN
    Those are the church bells of St. Mary Ottery.

    MARGARET
    I know it.

    JOHN
    Saint Mary Ottery, my native village
    In the sweet shire of Devon. 
    Those are the bells.

MARGARET
Wilt go to church, John?

JOHN
I have been there already.

MARGARET
How canst say thou hast been there already?  The bells are only now
ringing for morning service, and hast thou been at church already?

    JOHN
    I left my bed betimes, I could not sleep,
    And when I rose, I look’d (as my custom is)
    From my chamber window, where I can see the sun rise;
    And the first object I discern’d
    Was the glistering spire of St. Mary Ottery.

    MARGARET
    Well, John.

    JOHN
    Then I remember’d ’twas the sabbath-day. 
    Immediately a wish arose in my mind,
    To go to church and pray with Christian people.

    And then I check’d myself, and said to myself,
    “Thou hast been a heathen, John, these two years past,
    (Not having been at church in all that time,)
    And is it fit, that now for the first time
    Thou should’st offend the eyes of Christian people
    With a murderer’s presence in the house of prayer? 
    Thou would’st but discompose their pious thoughts,
    And do thyself no good:  for how could’st thou pray,
    With unwash’d hands, and lips unus’d to the offices?”
    And then I at my own presumption smiled;
    And then I wept that I should smile at all,
    Having such cause of grief!  I wept outright;
    Tears like a river flooded all my face,
    And I began to pray, and found I could pray;
    And still I yearn’d to say my prayers in the church. 
    “Doubtless (said I) one might find comfort in it.” 
    So stealing down the stairs, like one that fear’d detection,
    Or was about to act unlawful business
    At that dead time of dawn,
    I flew to the church, and found the doors wide open,
    (Whether by negligence I knew not,
    Or some peculiar grace to me vouchsaf’d,
    For all things felt like mystery).

    MARGARET
    Yes.

    JOHN
    So entering in, not without fear,
    I past into the family pew,
    And covering up my eyes for shame,
    And deep perception of unworthiness,
    Upon the little hassock knelt me down,
    Where I so oft had kneel’d,
    A docile infant by Sir Walter’s