Monks of the monastery.

The time is the twelfth century, a Christmas eve.

The place is the great hall of the monastery of St. Cuthbert.  The room is a large one, with cold stone walls and a heavy-beamed ceiling, lighted by flaring torches.  The rear wall is broken by a massive oaken door leading to the courtyard of the monastery, and two rudely glazed windows.  On the right an open doorway leads to the chapel and to one side of the doorway is a shrine to the Virgin and Child, before which some candles burn with wavering flames.  On the opposite side of the room is a huge fireplace with a blazing log fire.  The wind is roaring outside, and even blows through the rude hall in great, gusty draughts, while a fine powder of snow sifts in through crevices of windows and door.

SCENE I. [The travellers, with some of the monks of the monastery, are seated before the fire.  The Jew, bent, gaunt and gray-bearded, stands to one side, unrecognized, muttering to himself indistinctly.  He has evidently just entered, for the melted snow still gleams from his clothing.  The company disregard him, conversing among themselves.]

A SOLDIER.  Now, by Our Lady, ’tis a raw cold night—­
  I mind me when on such a night I lay
  Unsheltered in the trenches facing Mons
  In Flanders.

A MERCHANT.  Hem!  Sir Longbeard tells a tale. 
  List, all!

THE SOLDIER.  By Holy mass—­

THE MERCHANT.  Ho!  Hear the oaths! 
  They ’re thick as—­

THE SOLDIER.  Hark ye!  Hush thy meddling tongue!

A PEASANT.  A quarrel!  Mark them!

A MONK.  Shame!  On such a night
  When angels fill the air, and voices sweet,
  Mysterious, sing their golden songs of peace—­
  On this glad night to quarrel?

THE SOLDIER.  Why, to-night—­

THE MONK.  On such a night was Christ, our Saviour, born,
  While all the earth was wrapped in sacred peace. 
  This is the holy eve, and on the morrow,
  With solemn chant we shall observe the birth
  Of that sweet Christ-child whom we worship all.

THE SOLDIER.  Then I’ll not quarrel—­my hand upon it.  There.

THE MERCHANT.  Nor I. And here’s my hand, good soldier.  There.

[The company is silent for a moment, while the wind moans in the great chimney.]

THE MERCHANT [crossing himself].  Hark to the wind.  Meseemeth that it wails
  Like some lost soul.

THE SOLDIER.  Some say it is the soul
  Of that accursed Jew who crossed our Lord
  When he was on his way to Calvary,
  And was condemned to wander ever more
  Until the Christ a second time should come.

[The faces grow solemn, in the fire-light, and the voices are lowered.]

THE MONK.  The Jew!  Oft have men seen him bent and worn,
  When darkness fills the earth, still wandering,
  Still living out his curse.