Eliz. I know not wholly: But this I know, that I shall swear to-night To yield my will unto a wiser will; To see God's truth through eyes which, like the eagle's, From higher Alps undazzled eye the sun. Compelled to discipline from which my sloth Would shrink, unbidden,--to deep devious paths Which my dull sight would miss, I now can plunge, And dare life's eddies fearless. Isen. You will repent it. Eliz. I do repent, even now. Therefore I'll swear. And bind myself to that, which once being light, Will not be less right, when I shrink from it. No; if the end be gained--if I be raised To freer, nobler use, I'll dare, I'll welcome Him and his means, though they were racks and flames. Come, ladies, let us in, and to the chapel. [Exeunt.] SCENE IV A Chamber. Guta, Isentrudis, and a Lady. Lady. Doubtless she is most holy--but for wisdom-- Say if 'tis wise to spurn all rules, all censures, And mountebank it in the public ways Till she becomes a jest? Isen. How's this? Lady. For one thing-- Yestreen I passed her in the open street, Following the vocal line of chanting priests, Clad in rough serge, and with her soft bare feet Wooing the ruthless flints; the gaping crowd Unknowing whom they held, did thrust and jostle Her tender limbs; she saw me as she passed-- And blushed and veiled her face, and smiled withal. Isen. Oh, think, she's not seventeen yet. Guta. Why expect Wisdom with love in all? Each has his gift-- Our souls are organ pipes of diverse stop And various pitch; each with its proper notes Thrilling beneath the self-same breath of God. Though poor alone, yet joined, they're harmony. Besides these higher spirits must not bend To common methods; in their inner world They move by broader laws, at whose expression We must adore, not cavil: here she comes-- The ministering Saint, fresh from the poor of Christ. [Elizabeth enters without cloak or shoes, carrying an empty basket.] Isen. What's here, my Princess? Guta, fetch her robes! Rest, rest, my child! Eliz [throwing herself on a seat] Oh! I have seen such things! I shudder still; your gay looks dazzle me; As those who long in hideous darkness pent Blink at the daily light; this room's too bright! We sit in a cloud, and sing, like pictured angels, And say, the world runs smooth--while right below Welters the black fermenting heap of life On which our state is built: I saw this day What we might be, and still be Christian women: And mothers too--I saw one, laid in childbed These three cold weeks upon the black damp straw; No nurses, cordials, or that nice parade With which we try to balk the curse of Eve-- And yet she laughed, and showed her buxom boy, And said, Another week, so please the Saints, She'd be at work a-field. Look here--and here-- [Pointing round the room.]