'My father!'
'My son, you are so poor a creature that I know not how to speak to you. You are like a sponge, quickly sodden, easily squeezed. These five years I have been hoping against hope that I might pluck you as a brand from the burning; at the least little flame, back you fall again.'
'I am not what I was when I came.'
'No. Your physical health is better.'
'My father!'
'My son, is it not true? What guarantee have I that you will endow Holy Church, and this her house, with the sum of which you speak?'
'I will give you my written bond.'
'Will that be a legal instrument in England?'
'Certainly. But do you think that in such a matter my word may not be trusted?--that it will be necessary for you to invoke the law? If so, I must indeed stand low in your eyes.'
'I have heard you vow, with tears of blood, using all the protestations of which you were master, that you would never forsake the shelter of this holy house. Do I understand that you propose that your withdrawal shall be final.'