Eliz. Let be—we must not think on’t.
The scoff was true—I thank her—I thank God—
This too I needed. I had built myself
A Babel-tower, whose top should reach to heaven,
Of poor men’s praise and prayers, and subtle pride
At mine own alms. ’Tis crumbled into dust!
Oh! I have leant upon an arm of flesh—
And here’s its strength! I’ll walk by faith—by faith
And rest my weary heart on Christ alone—
On him, the all-sufficient!
Shame on me! dreaming thus about myself,
While you stand shivering here. [To her little Son.]
Art cold, young knight?
Knights must not cry—Go slide, and warm thyself.
Where shall we lodge to-night?
Isen. There’s no place open,
But that foul tavern, where we lay last night.
Elizabeth’s Son [clinging to her]. O mother, mother! go not to that house—
Among those fierce lank men, who laughed, and scowled,
And showed their knives, and sang strange ugly songs
Of you and us. O mother! let us be!
Eliz. Hark! look! His father’s voice!—his very eye—
Opening so slow and sad, then sinking down
In luscious rest again!
Isen. Bethink you, child—
Eliz. Oh yes—I’ll think—we’ll to our tavern friends;
If they be brutes, ’twas my sin left them so.
Guta. ’Tis but for a night or two: three days will bring
The Abbess hither.
Isen. And then to Bamberg straight
For knights and men-at-arms! Your uncle’s wrath—
Guta [aside]. Hush! hush! you’ll fret her, if you talk of vengeance.
Isen. Come to our shelter.