Hilarion. Rather a lame miracle.
Abbot [reprovingly]. My son, I fear the work in which you have been engaged, to wit, taking charge of the funny picture-books and the monkeys and jumping jacks, has rather thrown your mind off its level of sobriety, and caused in you a tendency to make frivolous remarks, unbecoming a Monk.
Ambrose. I am the leech of the Convent. Let me look at the miracle, most holy Abbot.
[All make way for Ambrose.
Abbot. Gladly, my son Ambrose.
Ambrose [examining Rosalia's ankle]. I think I can cure this with my herbs and simples, if your reverence wills that I should try.
Abbot [doubtfully]. But I don't know. I never heard of curing a miracle.
Ambrose. If it is not lawful, my humble power will not suffice to cure it.
Abbot. True. We will take her, then, and thou shalt exercise thy healing art upon her. [Takes Rosalia up in his arms, and leads the way, a Monk picking up the crutches.] We will go on with our Christmas devotions, for which we should now feel all the more zeal.
[Exit Monks (R.), singing. Enter Peter,
darting to place where Rosalia stood, then
to look after the Monks, hands clasped in anxiety.