PRINCE HENRY.
      And I Prince Henry of Hoheneck,
Who crave your hospitality to-night.

ABBOT.
You are thrice welcome to our humble walls.
You do us honor; and we shall requite it,
I fear, but poorly, entertaining you
With Paschal eggs, and our poor convent wine,
The remnants of our Easter holidays.

PRINCE HENRY.
How fares it with the holy monks of Hirschau?
Are all things well with them?

ABBOT.
                    All things are well.

PRINCE HENRY.
A noble convent!  I have known it long
By the report of travellers.  I now see
Their commendations lag behind the truth.
You lie here in the valley of the Nagold
As in a nest: and the still river, gliding
Along its bed, is like an admonition
How all things pass.  Your lands are rich and ample,
And your revenues large.  God's benediction
Rests on your convent.

ABBOT.
                       By our charities
We strive to merit it.  Our Lord and Master,
When He departed, left us in his will,
As our best legacy on earth, the poor!
These we have always with us; had we not,
Our hearts would grow as hard as are these stones.

PRINCE HENRY.
If I remember right, the Counts of Calva
Founded your convent.

ABBOT.
                     Even as you say.

PRINCE HENRY.
And, if I err not, it is very old.

ABBOT.
Within these cloisters lie already buried
Twelve holy Abbots.  Underneath the flags
On which we stand, the Abbot William lies,
Of blessed memory.

PRINCE HENRY.
              And whose tomb is that,
Which bears the brass escutcheon?

ABBOT.
                        A benefactor's.
Conrad, a Count of Calva, he who stood
Godfather to our bells.

PRINCE HENRY.
              Your monks are learned
And holy men, I trust.

ABBOT.
               There are among them
Learned and holy men.  Yet in this age
We need another Hildebrand, to shake
And purify us like a mighty wind.
The world is wicked, and sometimes I wonder
God does not lose his patience with it wholly,
And shatter it like glass!  Even here, at times,
Within these walls, where all should be at peace,
I have my trials.  Time has laid his hand
Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it,
But as a harper lays his open palm
Upon his harp to deaden its vibrations,
Ashes are on my head, and on my lips
Sackcloth, and in my breast a heaviness
And weariness of life, that makes me ready
To say to the dead Abbots under us,
"Make room for me!"  Ony I see the dusk
Of evening twilight coming, and have not
Completed half my task; and so at times
The thought of my shortcomings in this life
Falls like a shadow on the life to come.

PRINCE HENRY.
We must all die, and not the old alone;
The young have no exemption from that doom.

ABBOT.
Ah, yes! the young may die, but the old must!
That is the difference.

PRINCE HENRY.
                I have heard much laud
Of your transcribers, Your Scriptorium
Is famous among all; your manuscripts
Praised for their beauty and their excellence.

ABBOT.
That is indeed our boast.  If you desire it
You shall behold these treasures.  And meanwhile
Shall the Refectorarius bestow
Your horses and attendants for the night.

They go in.  The Vesper-bell rings.

THE CHAPEL

Vespers: after which the monks retire, a chorister leading an old
monk who is blind.

PRINCE HENRY.
They are all gone, save one who lingers,
Absorbed in deep and silent prayer.
As if his heart could find no rest,
At times he beats his heaving breast
With clenched and convulsive fingers,
Then lifts them trembling in the air.
A chorister, with golden hair,
Guides hitherward his heavy pace.
Can it be so?  Or does my sight
Deceive me in the uncertain light?
Ah no!  I recognize that face
Though Time has touched it in his flight,
And changed the auburn hair to white.
It is Count Hugo of the Rhine,
The deadliest foe of all our race,
And hateful unto me and mine!

THE BLIND MONK.
Who is it that doth stand so near
His whispered words I almost hear?

PRINCE HENRY.
I am Prince Henry of Hoheneck,
And you, Count Hugo of the Rhine!
I know you, and I see the scar,
The brand upon your forehead, shine
And redden like a baleful star!

THE BLIND MONK.
Count Hugo once, but now the wreck
Of what I was.  O Hoheneck!
The passionate will, the pride, the wrath
That bore me headlong on my path,
Stumbled and staggered into fear,
And failed me in my mad career,
As a tired steed some evil-doer,
Alone upon a desolate moor,
Bewildered, lost, deserted, blind,
And hearing loud and close behind
The o'ertaking steps of his pursuer.
Then suddenly from the dark there came
A voice that called me by my name,
And said to me, "Kneel down and pray!"
And so my terror passed away,
Passed utterly away forever.
Contrition, penitence, remorse,
Came on me, with o'erwhelming force;
A hope, a longing, an endeavor,
By days of penance and nights of prayer,
To frustrate and defeat despair!
Calm, deep, and still is now my heart,
With tranquil waters overflowed;
A lake whose unseen fountains start,
Where once the hot volcano glowed.
And you, O Prince of Hoheneck!
Have known me in that earlier time,
A man of violence and crime,
Whose passions brooked no curb nor check.
Behold me now, in gentler mood,
One of this holy brotherhood.
Give me your hand; here let me kneel;
Make your reproaches sharp as steel;
Spurn me, and smite me on each cheek;
No violence can harm the meek,
There is no wound Christ cannot heal!
Yes; lift your princely hand, and take
Revenge, if 't is revenge you seek;
Then pardon me, for Jesus' sake!

PRINCE HENRY.
Arise, Count Hugo! let there be
No further strife nor enmity
Between us twain; we both have erred
Too rash in act, too wroth in word,
From the beginning have we stood
In fierce, defiant attitude,
Each thoughtless of the other's right,
And each reliant on his might.
But now our souls are more subdued;
The hand of God, and not in vain,
Has touched us with the fire of pain.
Let us kneel down and side by side
Pray till our souls are purified,
And pardon will not be denied!