Sir Arth. Who does not understand my grief?
Alas! alas!
And yet you do not: will the church permit
A nun in approbation of her habit
To be ravished?
Hil. A holy woman, benedicite!
Now God forfend,[307] that any should presume
To touch the sister of a holy house.
Sir Arth. Jesus deliver me!
Sir Ralph. Why, Millicent, the daughter of this knight,
Is out of Cheston taken this last night.
Hil. Was that fair maiden late become a nun?
Sir Ralph. Was she, quoth a? Knavery, knavery, knavery, knavery; I smell it, I smell it. I' faith, is the wind in that door? Is it even so? Dost thou ask me that now?
Hil. It is the first time that e'er I heard of it.
Sir Arth. That's very strange.
Sir Ralph. Why, tell me, friar, tell me: thou art counted a holy man? Do not play the hypocrite with me, nor[308] bear with me: I cannot dissemble. Did I aught but by thy own consent, by thy allowance—nay, further, by thy warrant?
Hil. Why, reverend knight—