Father Benedict— What!
Just now you did confess—
Oswald— I said you spoke—
Spoke as hunters—
Father Benedict—That's a lie!
Abbot— Benedict!
Be circumspect, lest in your anger you
Bay at him and turn that which you do scorn.
Father Benedict—I scorn the imputation which his pride
Popped at me. As though all the saints in heaven
Bowed down to him because the other night—
(Turning away.)
Oh, but God hates the proud man!
Abbot— And, therefore,
Wisdom doth bid you keep an open ear
And leave the scroll of judgment still unsealed.
For how shall Mercy find the iron leaf?
Will Heaven's book be open if we close
Ours? When men cry to us, if we shut our ears,
We shut out Heaven's whispers. Oh, nothing—Of
all the deeds men do that vex the sky—Nothing
so rankles in the heart of God
As to see lips, fresh come from prayer for grace,
Refusing justice.
(The Priest has walked forward at an angle from the table and stands with his back to the Abbot. Reaching under his gown, he draws a dark string across his breast and begins, seemingly, to untie a knot. The Abbot regards him in silence.)