(Two men dart out, left.)
He did not tell me this. (A pause.)
Arm yourselves, men.
(In a mass the men hurry out, left, a confused hum of voices rising for a moment, then dying away in the distance. The scene has grown darker. A gust of wind blows to the door of the church.)
Father Benedict— (Alone upon the steps.)
This is the day. (A pause.)
Inscrutable are the ways of God. Dark, dark,
Unfathomable the sea in which He moves.
He changeth as the waters change, and yet
The mountains strike their roots in Him and stand.
(Thunder right. The priest comes down from the steps and out into the street, where he stands looking up at the sky.)
Thy ways are not our ways. Thy voice is heard
Abroad upon the firmament. The stars
That should have been put out an hour ago
Burn bright upon the edges of the storm.
Satan hath laid his hand upon the sun,
And the day gropes, feeling her way far off
As doth the blind. But yesterday the morn
Walked beautiful on the mountains, with her lamp
Kindled as for the Resurrection.
This is the Sabbath, yet Golgotha's gloom
Hangs o'er the Sepulcher, and like a torch
Thrown down upon the mountains burns the dawn
A scant blue flame far down behind the world.
(A pause.)
God shall not call in vain.
(Looking left.)