Chapter 17

Palermo. A Nunnery. Enter ABBESS, followed by a Lay-Sister.

ABBESS. Is the poor creature roused?

LAY-SISTER. Nay, she still sleeps. 'T would break your pious heart to see her, mother. She begged our meanest cell, though 't is past doubt She has been bred to delicate luxury. I deemed her spent, had not the soft breast heaved As gently as a babe's and even in dreams Two crystal drops oozed from her swollen lids, And trickled down her cheeks. Her grief sleeps not, Although the fragile body craves its rest.

ABBESS. Poor child! I fear she hath sore need of prayer. Hath she yet spoken?

LAY-SISTER. Only such scant words Of thanks or answer as our proffered service Or questionings demand. When we are silent, Even if she wake, she seemeth unaware Of any presence. She will sit and wail, Rocking upon the ground, with dull, wide eyes, Wherefrom the streaming tears unceasing course; The only sound that then escapes her lips Is, "Father, Father!" in such piteous strain As though her rent heart bled to utter it.

ABBESS. Still she abides then by her first request To take the black veil and its vows to-morrow?

LAY-SISTER. Yea, to that purpose desperately she clings. This evening, if she rouse, she makes confession. Even now a holy friar waits without, Fra Bruno, of the order of Carthusians, Beyond Palermo.

ABBESS. I will speak with him, Ere he confess her, since we know him not. Follow me, child, and see if she have waked. [Exeunt.]