[Lifts his hands in blessing.
Arthur. Stay holy Hermit, fair trees rot at heart,
And I am evil if this world holds ill.
I would lay bare my soul of its foul sin,
And if there be white shrift for such as me
In Heaven’s mercy, I would crave it now;
Though little of hope have I, if thou dost hear.
Hermit. Wouldst thou confess, my son, the church hath power
To white the blackest sinner crawling foul
From earth’s most sensuous cesspool, doth he but