Page:The poems of Emma Lazarus volume 1.djvu/351

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THE SPAGNOLETTO.
337

Rebels against the habit of despair,
And, ere I am aware, has wandered back,
Among forbidden paths. What prayer, what penance,
Will shrive me clean before the sight of Heaven?
My hands are black with parricide. Why else
Should his dead face arise three nights before me,
Bleached, ghastly, dripping as of one that’s drowned,
To freeze my heart with horror ? Christ, have mercy!
[She covers her face with her hands in an agony of despair.

Enter a MONK.

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 her lips.

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!