_Isid._ Nay, touch me not--approach me not, Anselmo.

_Ans._ (_looking earnestly at her_). Isidora!

_Isid._ Holy Virgin, to thee I trust for strength
In this my hour of peril. Anselmo,
That look has reft a heart too fondly thine--
But only thine, henceforth, in holy love.

_Ans._ And is not all love holy? that the holiest,
Which gushes from the springs of thy pure heart;
So pure, that, laved by it, my spotted breast
Shall shortly be as snow.

_Isid._ Hear me, Anselmo:
It is ordain'd we meet no more.

_Ans._ And canst thou say those words? (_Kneels._) See,
on the earth
I grovelling kneel--my straining eyes seek thine:
Turn, turn to me; say not those words again;
Thou canst not, dearest.

_Isid._ (_her eyes still averted_). We must meet no more.

_Ans._ I'll not believe thy voice: look on me now
One steady, one unflinching glance, and then
If thou'lt repeat those words--I must believe.
(_Pause._) Averted still!--Oh, Isidora, who,
Who pour'd such cruel thoughts into thy breast?
Was it a female fiend, or some vile priest,
Some meddling, sin-absolving, canting priest?--
It was--that start declares it.--Curse him, curse him.
(_Rises._)

_Isid._ (_coming forward with dignity and fronting Anselmo._)
Anselmo, curse him not. Thou art that priest.
[_Anselmo covers his face with his hand._]
My better angel hath my mind illumed--
Hath shown me thy past life. Thy heavy sins,
In black array, hath weigh'd before mine eyes;
That silent voice, which every bosom sways,
Hath spoken deeply--bidden me abjure
Him who mock'd all. That gentle voice hath said,
That of us twain, immortal bliss alone
Can crown the union; which to be obtain'd,
Must on this earth be won by penance strict,
Unceasing prayer, and thy resumed vows.
Is it not well, Anselmo----

_Ans._ Isidora,
Are racking tortures well? is liquid fire
Rushing and bubbling through the burning veins,
Until they shrivel, well? And is it well
To find the angel, who hath borne your soul
Half o'er the flaming abyss of the damn'd,
Shake it away, and feel it whirling sink
To everlasting torments?--In bitter truth,
These are but nought compared to the fell pangs
Thy words have caused, which rack my tortured breast.

_Isid._ Anselmo, hear me!

_Ans._ Hear _me_ now in turn,
By the soul I've perill'd, we must _not_ part!
Cast me but off, an