Abbot—Only God.
But make no mention of the witch's son.
When truth is whist and doubt a favoring gale
Blowing toward golden islands in the sea,
Let the ship drive before it into port.
No one was with you when you found him.
Louis—No one.
Abbot—And no one saw you.
Louis—No one. It was still dark;
The brothers were asleep.
Abbot—Say nothing of it.
Let rumor blow it as a miracle.
Sweet feet of saints have run down in the night
And with a touch enriched a holy house
Of no more worth than this of good St. Giles.
Rumor of saints can do as much as saints.
If thoughts of bright wings stirring in the sky
Can kindle hearts to deeds of charity,
And by those deeds the Virgin's chapels rise,
Let the flame run. We'll blow it through the land.
I've had the brothers circulate report
That wings were seen dissolving in the dawn
Above the mountains.
Louis—(With a smile.) So, perhaps, there were—
agles wheeling airily in the clouds.
Is this not, Father, to build upon the sand?
Abbot—To build on sand is to build on a lie.
Louis—What is a lie?
Abbot—A lie is not a thing
That is not, but a thing that cannot be.
Thus to say good is evil is a lie,
For good cannot be evil. But to say
That that hath been which God hath power to do
Is to make faith a fact. In days like these,
When the Albigensian heresy is rank,
We must support the Holy Writ in this,
That what is done in thought is done in deed.
Has a good deed been done? Then a good thought
Has done that deed, and that good thought is God's,
And such thoughts we call angels.