Oswald—(Excitedly.) No!
No, no! The boy has done no— (Coughing.)
Jardin— Come on, men!
Shall bloody daggers drip on our gray hairs,
And chase us through the deep? Shall they? Come on!
(The line swings off.)
Never will Jardin patch a truce with Hell
Until her towers, stormed by angels' wings,
Shall bow like Acre to the Son of God.
Oswald—Stop them, Father! Until I tell you!
Father Benedict—(Overcome with rage.) This,
This is the worst I ever did hear. (Looking about him while
Oswald coughs with great distress.) Men,—
(Seeing that all the men have gone, he shouts after them.)
Pile your wood here, men! We shall have sacrifice!
(He goes toward the church.)
Oswald— (Frantically.)
Father! Father! (He falls upon his knees.)