The death-blow to his heart? Cheat not thy soul
With empty dreams—thy God hath judged thee guilty!
MARTA.
Have pity, father ! Let me tell thee all.
Thou, cloistered, holy and austere, know st not
My glittering temptations. My betrayer
Was of an angel s aspect. His were all gifts,
All grace, all seeming virtue. I was plunged,
Deaf, dumb, and blind, and hand-bound in the deep.
If a poor drowning creature craved thine aid,
Thou wouldst not spurn it. Such a one am I,
And all the waves roll over me. Help, help !
Let me not perish ! Wrest me from my doom !
Say not that I am lost !
MONK.
I can but say
What the just Spirit prompts. Myself am naught
To pardon or condemn. The sin is sinned ;
The fruit forbid is tasted, yea, and pressed
Of its last honeyed juices. Wilt thou now
Escape the after-bitterness with prayers,
Scourgings, and wringings of the hands? Shall these
Undo what has been done?—make whole the heart
