SCENE V.--(_Audience room in the Papal palace. Enter_ HILDEBRAND

_wearing his purple robe of state and with him_ PETER DAMIANI. _Enter a page._)

_Page._ An Ambassador waits without, your Holiness.

_Hild._ From whence? Germany?

_Page._ Yea, my Lord.

_Hild._ Ha, now, the tide went out, the tide comes in. ’Tis but the spray to mine own thunders. Now, we’ll hear his answer to the Papal Curse.

_Pet._ Wilt thou receive a message from one accursed? He is no king, no ruler any more. This is no embassy.

_Hild._ Perchance, it may be prayer for pardon. Henry knoweth by this the power of Hildebrand.

_Page._ My Lord, it be but a rude petitioner hath come. He tells no beads, nor maketh any prayers, But rather stamps an’ mutters, raves an’ swears, And sendeth Rome an’ all her cardinals To Hell twice every minute.

_Pet._ Hale him to prison, the loud, blaspheming hound, The damp of some rock cell would bring him round To proper reverence for thy holy office, He may intend a murder on thy person, Let him not in.

_Hild._ Nay, but I will. Like master, like his dog, I fain would see the issue of this cursing. Yea, I would see this German foam at mouth, Fear not, I’ll match him, call the Cardinals in.

(_Exit_ Page. _Enter_ Cardinals, _who stand behind the Pope_.)

(_Enter the page, followed by the German Ambassador, who remains standing._)

_Hild._ (_To_ Cardinals.) On your lives keep peace whatever he doth do. Leave him to me. (_To the_ Ambassador.) Kneel!

_Amb._ Nay, I’ll not kneel to thee or other man Till I have said my message.

_A Card._ Kneel, impious Man, ’tis the Lord Pope.

_Pet._ Hale him out, German Dog, Blasphemer, He hath insulted the Holy Father.

_Amb._ (_Draws._) Come on ye cowardly Monks, I scorn ye all, Were he a king I’d bow my knee to him, An Emperor, an’ I might buss his hand, But only Pope, why popes have bribed me vain To slay your betters.

_Hild._ Silence: am I Pope indeed, why blame this man, When ye, obedient, insult me with your clamors.

(_To the_ Amb.) Hail you from Germany?

_Amb._ I do, proud Priest, my name is Wolf of Bamburg, Cradled in a nest that ne’er knew fear, Bred of a breed that hath a joy of killing. ’Tis not a monk would make me tremble here. My time is short, I would repeat my message.

_Hild._ What be thy message?

_Amb._ ’Tis to thee, proud Priest, an’ it doth come from Henry.

_Hild._ Speak!

_Amb._ Henry of Germany, whom in thine insolence, Thou cursedst with thy foulest blasphemies, Sendeth me, Wolf of Bamburg, unto thee, To hurl thine arrogant curses in thy face, And tell thee thou art no pope but a damned priest, Who stolest thy popedom.

_Pet._ Hale him out, tear him to pieces. (_A great clamor rises. The_ Cardinals _would attack him_.)

_Hild._ Silence! on your lives! This man is mine! (_To_ Wolf.) Speak on!

_Amb._ He further saith to thee, thou bastard Pope, As Emperor of Rome, come down, come down! And leave that chair thou foully hast usurped, And I his servant, say to thee, come down!

_All Cards._ Devil! German Dog! Tear him to pieces! (_All rush forward._)

_Hild._ (_Tears off his robe and throws it over the_ Ambassador.) Back! or fear my curse! Who strikes at that strikes me!

_All._ Nay, this is a devil.

_Hild._ Were he Satan himself, beneath that robe he were As sacred as God’s holiest angel!

(_To_ Amb.) Go Man and tell thy master, who is no king, That Gregory hath one single word for him, And that is pity. Let him ask his God To pardon him as I do pardon him. I lay no curse upon the innocent. When he comes penitent to me in tears I will receive him. Go! (_Exit_ Amb.) (_To_ Cardinals.) Have ye no reverence for Gregory that, Ye should revile revilings in this house? God’s ministers should ever be men of peace, And not a maddened rabble. As our Lord, In that last season of his great martyrdom, Bade holy Peter sheathe the angry sword, So I rebuke ye. Had he slain me here, You’d not have touched him! [_Exit_ Cardinals.

_Pet._ Hildebrand, sometimes it thinketh me Thou hast a magic, thou art the strangest Pope Yet seen in Rome. That man, who came blaspheming, Went out your slave.

_Hild._ Ah, Peter, know, we must meet fools with guile. ’Tis better to be subtle than be strong. I sometimes dream the greatest innocence Is but the mantle to the deepest guile, And men but stab the deeper when they smile.

[_Curtain._