_Hil._ (_tenderly_). Oh, Spirit of the Well, fear not, My love is not a thing of yesterday; Nor does it spring from thought of face and form. I love thee for thy boundless charity, That seeks no recompense--doing good works In modest silence from the very love Of doing good--bestowing life and strength On high and low, on rich and poor alike; Embracing in thy vast philosophy, All creeds, all nations, and all ranks of men! Holding thyself to be no higher than The meanest wretch who claims thy charity, Yet holding none to be of such account As to deserve thine homage. Just to all, Lovely in all thy modest deeds of good, Excelling type of godliest charity, Show thyself in whatever form thou wilt, Oh, Spirit of the Well, And I perforce must love thee! _Mous._ Be it so! Thou _shalt_ behold me as I am. But first, Ere I do that which cannot be undone, Give me a solemn token that shall serve As evidence of troth twixt thee and me. _Hil._ Dost thou still doubt me then? _Mous._ I doubt myself-- I doubt my rugged form, my rough-hewn face, My crumpled limbs!--See, lady, I exchange My immortality for Life and Death, My demi-godhead for the state of Man-- Man, undersized and crippled, and accurst! All this I do for thee--Let me be sure That when I’ve done all this, thou wilt not cry, “Away, distorted thing, My love is not for such a one as thou!” _Hil._ Oh, doubting Spirit, take this sacred ring. It is a holy relic--and a vow Spoken thereon binds her who utters it Through life to death. Upon this sacred stone, I do repeat my vow of yesternight! I am thy bride! (_Throws ring into the fountain._) _Mous._ (_taking the ring out of the fountain_). Then, lady, have thy will! But, bear in mind that modest virtue oft Will clothe herself in most unlikely garb-- Mistrust all prejudice--well-favoured hearts May underlie ill-favoured heads. We spurn The dirt beneath our feet--but never less We grovel in such dirt for diamonds, And sometimes find them there! A comely face Is but the food of Time--a kindly heart Time touches but to soften--think of this, And in thy breast some pity may be found, For the poor wretch to whom thy troth is given! [_MOUSTA reveals himself. Hilda, whose fears have been gradually aroused during this speech, recoils in horror and amazement at seeing him._ _Hil._ Mousta! Oh, Heaven, what have I said and done! Was _thine_ the voice that spake? _Mous._ (_abashed_). My lady, yes! _Hil._ Oh, cruel, cruel! _Mous._ Lady, pardon me. I knew not what I did!