Abbot— The lightning hath
No power to strike a tree while the blue sky
Bends over it. But let the wrath of Hell
Build up a cloud and fire it, and the tree
Falls shattered. But God calls the cloud away
And His winds blow it into nothingness.
Father Benedict—The tree is—?
Abbot— Oswald there. He stands secure.
Father Benedict—And the cloud—?
Abbot— You. You blacken over him
And, charged with passion, make an atmosphere
Of sulphur and in it, as in native air,
Hell slips her flame and the trunk tumbles down
To darkness. But God calls the cloud away
To judgment, and its shadow is seen no more.
If you will venture further in your wrath,
Do it, for I have done. (A pause.) Very well, then.
You may resume, my—
Oswald— I will undergo
Whatever ordeal Father may suggest;
Will walk hot irons or put my hand in fire
Or anything.
Abbot— You hear that, Benedict?
Father Benedict—He knows the Pope has banned the ordeal.
(To Oswald with scorn.)
Brave!