How fares your Holiness this morning?
ALEXANDER.
Poto,
There was no scar on him, not the least wound;
That is the truth: and he stood armed again.
As bright as San Michele he looked down
Upon us from the wall, his gonfalon
Swathing around him as he stood. His face
Was to me as an angel’s.
[He weeps quietly.] I repent,
I will change all to meet that boy again
In Paradise, no wound on him, no scar.
And yet the sight of him,
O Poto, drove down to the rasping quick
Of conscience through my heart. All shall be changed,
The Vatican be cleared of sin. These bastards ...
Let me not see them more! Joffré, Lucrezia—
Joffré must mind his government afar,
I banish him. Lucrece—oh, I shall gather
The seas between us; she shall dwell in Spain,
Dwell in Valencia, deep, where I was born,
White little demon-girl!
[He rises, trembling, and Poto robes him.] No priest henceforward
Shall hold two benefices; simony
No more shall breed among us. God would punish
Some sin in us; it could not be Giovanni
Deserved a death so cruel. Gently, Poto,
You are too violent.
POTO.
Patience, Holiness,
You slit the silk.
ALEXANDER.
Where is the Cardinal
I called my son? Unnatural, where are they?
The children I have fostered in my bosom,
Where are they?
POTO.
Holiness,
Donna Lucrezia in the Sistine Convent
Prays day and night.