SCENE II.

_A Room, the building of the Inquisition of Granada, lit by stained window, picturing St. James of Spain._

_Monks and Inquisitors._

_First Monk._ Will you not hear my last new song?

_First Inquisitor._ Hush, hush! So she must burn you say.

_Second Inquisitor._ She must in truth.

_First Inquisitor._ Will he not spare her life? How would one matter When there are many?

_Second Monk._ Ebremar will stamp This heathen horde away. You need not hope; And know you not she kissed that pious child With poisonous lips, and he is pining since?

_First Monk._ You're full of wordiness. Come, hear my song.

_Second Monk._ In truth an evil race; why strive for her, A little Moorish girl?

_Second Inquisitor._ Small worth.

_First Monk._ My song--

_First Inquisitor._ I had a sister like her once my friend.

[_Touching the first Monk on the shoulder._]

Where is our brother Peter? When you're nigh, He is not far. I'd have him speak for her. I saw his jovial mood bring once a smile To sainted Ebremar's sad eyes. I think He loves our brother Peter in his heart. If Peter would but ask her life--who knows?

_First Monk._ He digs his cabbages. He brings to mind That song I've made--is of a Russian tale Of Holy Peter of the Burning Gate: A saint of Russia in a vision saw

[_Sings_]

A stranger new arisen wait By the door of Peter's gate, And he shouted Open wide Thy sacred door, but Peter cried, No, thy home is deepest hell, Deeper than the deepest well. Then the stranger softly crew Cock-a-doodle-doodle-doo! Answered Peter: Enter in Friend; but 'twere a deadly sin Ever more to speak a word Of any unblessed earthly bird.

_First Inquisitor._ Be still, I hear the step of Ebremar. Yonder he comes; bright-eyed, and hollow-cheeked From fasting--see, the red light slanting down From the great painted window wraps his brow, As with an aureole.

[_Ebremar enters--they all bow to him._]

_First Inquisitor._ My suit to you--

_Ebremar._ I will not hear; the Moorish girl must die. I will burn heresy from this mad earth, And--

_First Inquisitor._ Mercy is the manna of the world.

_Ebremar._ The wages of sin is death.

_Second Monk._ No use.

_First Inquisitor._ My lord, if it must be, I pray descend Yourself into the dungeon 'neath our feet And importune with weighty words this Moor, That she foreswear her heresies and save Her soul from seas of endless flame in hell.

_Ebremar._ I speak alone with servants of the Cross And dying men--and yet--but no, farewell.

_Second Monk._ No use.

_Ebremar._ Away! [_They go._] Hear oh! thou enduring God, Who giveth to the golden-crested wren Her hanging mansion. Give to me, I pray, The burthen of thy truth. Reach down thy hands And fill me with thy rage, that I may bruise The heathen. Yea, and shake the sullen kings Upon their thrones. The lives of men shall flow As quiet as the little rivulets Beneath the sheltering shadow of thy Church, And thou shalt bend, enduring God, the knees Of the great warriors whose names have sung The world to its fierce infancy again.