_First Inquisitor._ Young Moorish girl Taken in magic. In the Church's name I here arrest thee. _Mosada._ It is Allah's will. Touch not this boy, for he is innocent. _Cola._ Forgive! for I have told them everything. They said I'd burn in hell unless I told Them all, and let them find you in the vapour. [_She turns away--he clings to her dress._] Forgive me! _Mosada._ It was Allah's will. _Second Inquisitor._ Now cords. _Mosada._ No need to bind my hands. Where are ye, sirs, For ye are hid with vapours? _Second Inquisitor._ Round the stake The vapour is much thicker. _Cola._ God! the stake! Ye said that ye would fright her from her sin-- No more; take me instead of her, great sirs. She was my only friend; I'm lame you know-- One shoulder twisted, and the children cry Names after me. _First Inquisitor._ Lady-- _Mosada._ I come. _Cola_ [_following._] Forgive. Forgive, or I will die. _Mosada_ [_stooping and kissing him_]. 'Twas Allah's will. SCENE II. _A Room, the building of the Inquisition of Granada, lit by stained window, picturing St. James of Spain._ _Monks and Inquisitors._ _First Monk._ Will you not hear my last new song? _First Inquisitor._ Hush, hush! So she must burn you say. _Second Inquisitor._ She must in truth. _First Inquisitor._ Will he not spare her life? How would one matter When there are many? _Second Monk._ Ebremar will stamp This heathen horde away. You need not hope; And know you not she kissed that pious child With poisonous lips, and he is pining since? _First Monk._ You're full of wordiness. Come, hear my song. _Second Monk._ In truth an evil race; why strive for her, A little Moorish girl? _Second Inquisitor._ Small worth. _First Monk._ My song-- _First Inquisitor._ I had a sister like her once my friend. [_Touching the first Monk on the shoulder._] Where is our brother Peter? When you're nigh, He is not far. I'd have him speak for her. I saw his jovial mood bring once a smile To sainted Ebremar's sad eyes. I think He loves our brother Peter in his heart. If Peter would but ask her life--who knows? _First Monk._ He digs his cabbages. He brings to mind That song I've made--is of a Russian tale Of Holy Peter of the Burning Gate: A saint of Russia in a vision saw [_Sings_] A stranger new arisen wait By the door of Peter's gate, And he shouted Open wide Thy sacred door, but Peter cried, No, thy home is deepest hell, Deeper than the deepest well. Then the stranger softly crew Cock-a-doodle-doodle-doo! Answered Peter: Enter in Friend; but 'twere a deadly sin Ever more to speak a word Of any unblessed earthly bird.