Abbot—You should have told me that. (He walks to and fro.)
Louis— Where is he now?
Abbot—He had four golden letters to put on.
Louis—Down in the village at his work again!
Why, Father!
Louis— (Under his breath.) Benedict! (A silence.)
Abbot—Get ready and go down. A word from him,
And down the abbey falls.
Louis—Never to rise.
Abbot—And yet—
I do not think he'll tell it. Rumor, you know,
Has stamped an image on the heated mind.
They never could efface it by a thought
So monsterous as that devils had turned saints
And tripped the air with angels, hand in hand,
Moving as musically as summer stars.
Having no coin that bears the face of truth
They never will suspect a counterfeit,
And so no one will put the question to him.
Unquestioned, certainly Oswald will not speak.
Louis—But if he should? (A pause.)
Awhile ago you prayed
Some god to free us from our policy. (A pause.)
What time did he go down?