Father Benedict—Swift fly the avenging angels from the Throne.
Guilt like a red cloud passes from the sky,
And day looks in and sees where eyes have been.
Pierre— (As though his heart would break.)
Brother! brother! brother!
Father Benedict—Praise be to God!
The tempest shaketh showers upon the grass;
The storm wind cooleth the low violet;
But the proud pine I shatter, saith the Lord.
He shall go down and toss his boughs in hell.
The coffin-worm shall slime him. He shall not
Mock me upon the mountains, saith the Lord.
Praise be to God!
(Pierre glances up at the priest and then, as from something infernal, falls flat and hides his face against the ground.)
The lights are out in Babylon the Proud,
And the Lord God in blackness sitteth there
Among the ruins, dealing judgment.
(The rising wind blows shut the door of the church and leaves the scene enveloped in the half-light of early morning.)
My scales are hung in heaven, saith the Lord.
I weigh them in the darkness of the night.
They balance with the Dragon on one side.
Glory be to God in the highest!
(Shouting off demoniacally in the direction of the abbey.)
Lift up thy head, O Lucifer, in hell,
And see what God hath written on the sky
In letters that burn through thy broken panes.