(Out of breath.)
And you—and you who caused all this, may God—
Abbot—Benedict!
Father Benedict—But let God have his—
(He swallows the wine.) His will.
And he will have it, mark you that, young man.
(To the Abbot.)
Strange are the ways God hath of rousing up
The slothful to a work he long since laid
Upon the world and the world shirked it. But
It shall be done now, it shall be done now.
If for three years the heathen on the heights
Have served their idols, in less than three days
Their idols and themselves shall be in Hell.
Lead the chase yonder, Father, lead it there!
Beneath them shake the mountains. Let this hand
Strike for Thee there, and serve Thee, striking them,
That this accursed deed may smell no more,
A putrid carcass rotting under heaven.
This is how God hath roused us up at last.
(He drains the cup and sets it down.)
My people armed with vengeance had swung down
And reached the bridge, and Jardin, valiant man,
Soldier of God, Knight Templar of the Cross,
Who in the heathen land fought for ten years
To stamp out Satan, even in his old age
A furnace burning with the breath of God
And firing those about him to the work
Of ridding these mountains of the heathen, he—May
God reward him for it in the world
Without end, Amen—he had grabbed the dwarf
To drag him off and burn him—
Oswald— It was wrong—