Our Lord looked on the Spirits shut in darkness:
Scarce He remitted sentence, but His face
Melted the iron; there was Paradise
And fragrance with His breathing.
This Astorre....
Curse his fell jailor—triple murderer!
CARDINAL BORGIA.
Nay, in defence....
ALEXANDER.
Of his ambition, of his majesty....
O Tiber, but you do not heave; your current
Flows smooth!
And I, should not I pardon sin?
Here am I bleeding for his great offences,
With love not strong enough to snatch their load,
And fling them from my sight.
CARDINAL BORGIA.
You have absolved him, Father,
By your great power.
ALEXANDER.
Francesco,
Shall I absolve him with chained hands that tremble
Playing their gest of benison in Hell?
I will look up and curse him where he stands
Among the gods....
Cousin, there is a succour
I drink of, as St. Bernard drank the breast
Stooped to him in his ecstasy. Our Lady
Keeps me in adoration.... But this Power
That bows us to his ends, as resolute
And cold as growing winter, is a god.
Re-enter Michelotto.