THE MONK. May peace be in this place! [MARIA shudders violently at the sound of his voice; looks up and sees the MONK with bent head, and hands partially extended, as one who invokes a blessing. She rises, falls at his feet, and takes the hem of his skirt between her hands, pressing it to he lips.] MARIA. Welcome, thrice welcome! Bid me not rise, nor bless me with pure hands. Ask not to see my face. Here let me lie, Kissing the dust--a cast-away, a trait'ress, A murderess, a parricide! MONK. Accursed With all Hell's curses is the crime thou nam'st! What devil moved thee? Who and whence art thou, That wear'st the form of woman, though thou lack'st The heart of the she-wolf? Who was thy parent, What fiend of torture, that thine impious hands Should quench the living source of thine own life? MARIA. Spare me! oh, spare me! Nay, my hands are clean. He was the first, best, noblest among men. I was his light, his soul, his breath of life. These I withdrew from him, and made his days A darkness. Yet, perchance he is not dead, And blood and tears may wash away my guilt. Oh, tell me there is hope, though it gleam far-- One solitary ray, one steadfast spark, Beyond a million years of purgatory! My burning soul thirsts for the dewy balm Of comfortable grace. One word, one word, Or ere I perish of despair! MONK. What word? The one wherewith thou bad'st thy father hope? What though he be not dead? Is breathing life? Hast thou not murdered him in spirit? dealt The death-blow to his heart? Cheat not thy soul With empty dreams--thy God hath judged ye guilty! MARIA. Have pity, father! Let me tell thee all. Thou, cloistered, holy and austere, know'st not My glittering temptations. My betrayer Was of an angel's aspect. His were all gifts, All grace, all seeming virtue. I was plunged, Deaf, dumb, and blind, and hand-bound in the deep. If a poor drowning creature craved thine aid, Thou wouldst not spurn it. Such a one am I, And all the waves roll over me. Wrest me from my doom! Say not that I am lost!