Abbot— Hand in hand upon the hills
This sudden sun that hath sprung up the sky
Shall lead the vine and pour his blood to swell—
Louis—That morning when it strikes her eastern gate
Will see her heaving heavenward dome on dome,
Provided—
Abbot— Ay, that's it. You understand.
The quarry for our domes is in our brains.
Here, in our brains, your brain and mine, Louis,
We have the shuttle of that wonderous loom
That shall array her in her cloth-of-gold.
Here is the sun, the bridegroom of the grape.
And here, from hills of France and Italy,
The purple bride shall come and loose her zone
And lay her dower in the abbey's lap.
Lock up that jewel, Louis, in its case.
Let it not get abroad that you suspect—
Suspect, I say; you surely do not know—
Louis—I only know of what I heard and saw.
I heard his voice and—
Abbot— You were fast asleep.
Louis—At first I was; then, wakened by the shout,
Three times I heard him cry out in the dark:
"Haro! help! help!"
Abbot— A voice, of course; but whose?
The night so alters sound you cannot tell.
A cat-o'-mountain screaming in the dark
For all the world sounds like a wailing child.
Louis—But when I see the track, I'll tell you then.
The track up by the gate, and it's there now,
Is the dwarf's track, four toes on the left foot.
Abbot—Preposterous, Louis, that this hunched devilock,
Brought up on witch's dugs, in the dead of night
Should be about the service of the Lord.
Asses can talk like men when angels bid.
Perhaps the angels, taking him in the act
Of throwing brother Oswald from the cliff,
Scourged him before them to the abbey gate
And made him in his pain cry out for help
And set his print to attest the power of God.
Who knows?
Louis—Brother Oswald, perhaps.