rous pulses of young life,
Refusing my release. My heart at times
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 he lips.]

MARIA.
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!
What devil moved thee? Who and whence art thou,
That wear'st the form of woman, though thou lack'st
The heart of the she-wolf? Who was thy parent,
What fiend of torture, that thine impious hands
Should quench the living source of thine own life?

MARIA.
Spare me! oh, spare me! Nay, my hands are clean.
He was the first, best, noblest among men.
I was his light, his soul, his breath of life.
These I withdrew from him, and made his days
A darkness. Yet, perchance he is not dead,
And blood and tears may wash away my guilt.
Oh, tell me there is hope, though it gleam far--
One solitary ray, one steadfast spark,
Beyond a million years of purgatory!
My burning soul thirsts for the dewy balm
Of comfortable grace. One word, one word,
Or ere I perish of despair!

MONK.
What word?
The one wherewith thou bad'st thy father hope?
What though he be not dead? Is breathing life?
Hast thou not murdered him in spirit? dealt
The death-blow to his heart? Cheat not thy soul
With empty dreams--thy God hath judged ye guilty!

MARIA.
Have pity, father!