First Monk. (still listening) Begone, he issues forth.
(Exit Ongar.
(one of the doors open slowly, and enters Woggarwolfe, wrapped in a cloak and his head bound.)
Hex. Good-morrow, valiant Thane, whose pious gifts
Have won heay'n's grace to renovate thy strength,
And grant thee longer life, how goes thy health?
Wog. I thank you, rev'rend father, greatly mended.
First Monk. The prayers of holy men have power to save,
E'en on the very borders of the tomb,
The humbled soul who doth with gifts enrich
The holy church.
Second Monk. Didst thou not feel within thee
A peaceful calm, a cheering confidence,
Soon as thy pious offering was accepted?
Wog. (hesitating.) Yes, rev'rend fathers,—I have thought indeed—
Perhaps you meant it so—that since that time
The devil has not scar'd me in my dreams
So oft as he was wont, when sore with wounds
I first was laid upon my bed of pain.
Hex. Ay, that is much; but, noble Woggarwolfe,
Thinkest thou not the church doth merit well
Some stable gift, some fix'd inheritance?
Thou hast those lands that are so nearly join'd
Unto St. Alban's abbey.
