Father Benedict—(Gruffly.) Go on.
Abbot—No, Benedict; do it dispassionately.
You say God hates the proud. So he does. Yet
Wrath is more perilous to a man than pride.
For while pride turns a man's face to the sky,
'Tis wrath that shoves him where the thunders fall.
Father Benedict— (Under his breath.)
I'll drop some thunder on you.
Abbot— Now, my son,
Speak as though angels heard you. 'Tis almost
Midnight, and the Sabbath draweth nigh.
Oswald— (To the Priest.)
Father.
Abbot—Do you hear?—He shuts his ears. Proceed.
Remembering that truth is God's own bread.
He hungers for it.
Oswald— Oh, I have not lied!
I did not say that Father was a dog.
Abbot—I know you have not, Oswald. The three years
That you have been here never have been stained
With pride and falsehood. Those that now malign,
God knows where they shall go when the end comes.
Oswald—I will explain just how it came about.
Then, if you think I have done Father wrong,
Tell me and let me do penance for it. I—
I will not be here long.
Abbot— My son!