unobserved.) Monk. Refuge thou hast, Sweet daughter, in Heaven. Think of eternal things! Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray! Lal. (arising hurriedly.) I cannot pray!—My soul is at war with God! The frightful sounds of merriment below Disturb my senses—go! I cannot pray— The sweet airs from the garden worry me! Thy presence grieves me—go!—thy priestly raiment Fills me with dread—thy ebony crucifix With horror and awe! Monk. Think of thy precious soul! Lal. Think of my early days!—think of my father And mother in Heaven think of our quiet home, And the rivulet that ran before the door! Think of my little sisters!—think of them! And think of me!—think of my trusting love And confidence—his vows—my ruin—think—think Of my unspeakable misery!—begone! Yet stay! yet stay!—what was it thou saidst of prayer And penitence? Didst thou not speak of faith And vows before the throne? Monk. I did. Lal. Lal. ’Tis well. There is a vow were fitting should be made— A sacred vow, imperative, and urgent, A solemn vow! Monk. Daughter, this zeal is well! Lal. Father, this zeal is anything but well! Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing? A crucifix whereon to register This sacred vow? (he hands her his own) Not that—Oh! no!—no!—no! (shuddering) Not that! Not that!—I tell thee, holy man, Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me! Stand back! I have a crucifix myself,— I have a crucifix Methinks ’twere fitting The deed—the vow—the symbol of the deed— And the deed’s register should tally, father! (draws a cross-handled dagger, and raises it on high) Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine Is written in Heaven! Monk. Thy words are madness, daughter, And speak a purpose unholy—thy lips are livid— Thine eyes are wild—tempt not the wrath divine! Pause ere too late!—oh, be not—be not rash! Swear not the oath—oh, swear it not! Lal. ’Tis sworn! III. An apartment in a Palace. Politian and Baldazzar. Baldazzar.—Arouse thee now, Politian! Thou must not—nay indeed, indeed, shalt not Give away unto these humors. Be thyself! Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee, And live, for now thou diest! Politian. Not so, Baldazzar! Surely I live. Bal. Politian, it doth grieve me To see thee thus. Pol. Baldazzar, it doth grieve me To give thee cause for grief, my honoured friend. Command me, sir! what wouldst thou have me do? At thy behest I will shake off that nature Which from my forefathers I did inherit, Which with my mother’s milk I did imbibe, And be no more Politian, but some other. Command me, sir! Bal. To the field, then—to the field— To the senate or the field. Pol. Alas! Alas! There is an imp would follow me even there!