pen?

CHAPLAIN.

Stephen, blessed saint,
Saw, when the furious horde of angry Jews
Were stoning him, the gates of paradise
Standing ajar, and he rejoiced and sang.
His suffering body only they destroyed,
But 'twas to him as if the murderous band
That thought to kill him in their fury blind
Could only rend the garment he had doffed.

UTE (_to_ KRIEMHILD _who has joined them_).

Take heed, Kriemhild!

KRIEMHILD.

I do.

CHAPLAIN.

That was the power
Of faith; And ye must also learn the curse
Of unbelief. Saint Peter, who has charge
Of sword and keys of our most holy church,
Loved and instructed in the faith a youth,
And brought him up. One day upon a rock
The youth was standing, and the stormy sea
Around him surged in fury. Then he thought
Of how his Lord and Master left the ship,
And trustingly obeyed the slightest sign
The Saviour gave, and walked upon the deep
That tossed and threatened him with certain death.
A dizziness came o'er him at the thought
Of such a trial, for the wonder seemed
Beyond the bounds of reason, then he caught
A corner of the rock and clung to it,
Crying aloud: All, all, yet spare me this!
Then breathed the Lord, and suddenly the stone
Began to melt away. He sank and sank,
And lost all hope, until for very fear
He sprang from off the rock into the flood.
The breath of the Eternal stilled the sea,
And made it solid and it bore him up,
As kindly earth bears up both ye and me.
Repentantly he said: Thy will be done!

UTE.

In all eternity!

KRIEMHILD.

My Father, pray
That He who changes water and firm rock,
Will shield my Siegfried. For each sep'rate year
Of happy life vouchsafed me by his side
An altar will I build unto a saint.

[_Exit_ KRIEMHILD.]

CHAPLAIN.

The miracle astounds thee. Let me tell
The tale of how I won my friar's cowl.
The Angles are my kin, a heathen folk,
And as a heathen was I born and reared,
And turbulent I was; at fifteen years
The sword was girded on me. Then appeared
The Lord's first messenger among my tribe.
They scorned him and despised him, and at last
They slew him. Queen, I stood and saw it all,
And, driven by the others, gave to him
With this right hand I nevermore shall use,
Although the arm's not helpless as you think,
The final blow. But then I heard him pray.
He prayed for me, and his pure soul