eddies fearless.

Isen. You will repent it.

Eliz. I do repent, even now. Therefore I’ll swear.And bind myself to that, which once being light,Will not be less right, when I shrink from it.No; if the end be gained—if I be raisedTo freer, nobler use, I’ll dare, I’ll welcomeHim and his means, though they were racks and flames.Come, ladies, let us in, and to the chapel. [Exeunt.]

SCENE IV

A Chamber. Guta, Isentrudis, and a Lady.

Lady. Doubtless she is most holy—but for wisdom—Say if ’tis wise to spurn all rules, all censures,And mountebank it in the public waysTill she becomes a jest?

Isen. How’s this?

Lady. For one thing—Yestreen I passed her in the open street,Following the vocal line of chanting priests,Clad in rough serge, and with her soft bare feetWooing the ruthless flints; the gaping crowdUnknowing whom they held, did thrust and jostleHer tender limbs; she saw me as she passed—And blushed and veiled her face, and smiled withal.

Isen. Oh, think, she’s not seventeen yet.

Guta. Why expectWisdom with love in all? Each has his gift—Our souls are organ pipes of diverse stopAnd various pitch; each with its proper notesThrilling beneath the self-same breath of God.Though poor alone, yet joined, they’re harmony.Besides these higher spirits must not bendTo common methods; in their inner worldThey move by broader laws, at whose expressionWe must adore, not cavil: here she comes—The ministering Saint, fresh from the poor of Christ.

[Elizabeth enters without cloak or shoes, carrying an empty basket.]

Isen. What’s here, my Princess? Guta, fetch her robes!Rest, rest, my child!

Eliz [throwing herself on a seat] Oh! I have seen such things!I shudder still; your gay looks dazzle me;As those who long in hideous darkness pentBlink at the daily light; this room’s too bright!We sit in a cloud, and sing, like pictured angels,And say, the world runs smooth—while right belowWelters the black fermenting heap of lifeOn which our state is built: I saw this dayWhat we might be, and still be Christian women:And mothers too—I saw one, laid in childbedThese three cold weeks upon the black damp straw;No nurses, cordials, or that nice paradeWith which we try to balk the curse of 

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