By Christ, if God forbade it not, I would have said within mine own fool’s heart, Of all vile things that fool the soul of man The vilest and the priestliest hath to name Repentance. Could it blot one hour’s work out, A wise thing and a manful thing it were, And profit were it none for priests to preach. This will I tell thee: what last night befell Rejoices not but irks me. ROSAMUND. Let it not Rejoice nor irk thee. Vex thou not thy soul With any thought thereon, if none may bid thee Rejoice: and that were harsh and hard of heart. ALBOVINE. I will not. Queen and wife, hell durst not say I do not love thee. ROSAMUND. Heaven has heard—and I. ALBOVINE. Forget then all this foolishness, and pray God may forget it. ROSAMUND. God forgets as I. [_Exit_ ALBOVINE. And had repentance helped him? Shall I think It might have molten in my burning heart The thrice-retempered iron of resolve? Yet well it is to know that penitence Lies further from that frozen heart of his Than mercy from the tiger’s. Ay, God knows, I had scorned him too had penitence bowed him down Before me: now I do but hate. I am not Abased as wholly, so supremely shamed, As though I had wedded one as hard as he Who yet might think to soften down with words What hardly might be cleansed with tears of blood, The monumental memory graven on steel That burns the naked spirit of sense within me Like the ardent sting of keen-edged ice, which makes The naked flesh feel fire upon it. _Enter_ ALMACHILDES. ALMACHILDES. Queen, I come to crave a word of thee. ROSAMUND. I hear. ALMACHILDES. Thou knowest I love thy noble Hildegard: And rather would I give my soul to burn Than wrong in thought her flawless maidenhood. And now she hath told me what I dare not think Truth. And I dare not think her lips may lie. ROSAMUND. I have heard. And what is this to me? She hath not Said—hath not told thee, nor wouldst thou believe— That I have breathed a lie upon her lips Or taught them shamelessness by lesson? ALMACHILDES. No. But she came forth from thee to me—from thee— And spake with quivering mouth and quailing eyes And face whose fire turned ashen, and again Rekindling from that ashen agony Flamed, what no heart could think to hear her speak, Mine least of all, who love her. ROSAMUND. Ay? ALMACHILDES.