Bern. And our new abbot will retrieve its fame. The monk Bellarmin has no worldly vice. Speak, for I know him not.
St. Clair. Not know Bellarmin!
Bern. I know some fourteen years are past, since, in the dead of night, a stranger, faint with terror and distress, implor'd assistance at our abbey-gate, and, in return for our protecting care, since join'd our order. I know, beside, that stranger is Bellarmin. But for the rest, what means that pallid cheek, the hollow eye, and those stern gloomy looks, repelling sympathy, creating strong disgust.
St. Clair. Peace, peace, Bernardo!—he may have suffered wrongs, but never has committed them; and firm in conscious dignity and honour, Bellarmin may have spirit to revive what former abbots, truckling to authority; what servile priesthood, dreading lordly power, so long has suffer'd to lie dormant—the edict of our mighty founder, the edict of immortal Charlemagne!
[Pointing to the tablet.
Bern. He, our new abbot! he restore our abbey's ancient and peculiar charter! (pointing to the tablet.) St. Clair, he dare not, for guilt and courage ne'er had joint abode.
St. Clair. Guilt!
Bern. Ay; why ever, else, on naming the return of our brave warriors from the holy land, does he betray such latent anger? And, when, last night, 'twas thought their presence would increase the glory of his installation, why such avowed and rancorous opposition? He bears about him hidden discontent, and I will fathom to the lowest depth this most mysterious being! Mark! he comes! observe! observe!
[They retire up the stage.
Enter Abbot, through the avenue.