Eliz. Ah, my honoured master!That name speaks pardon, sure.

Con. What dost thou, daughter?

Eliz. I have been washing these poor people’s feet.

Con. A wise humiliation.

Eliz. So I meant it—And use it as a penance for my pride;And yet, alas, through my own vulgar likingsOr stubborn self-conceit, ’tis none to me.I marvel how the Saints thus tamed their spirits:Sure to be humbled by such toil, but proves,Not cures, our lofty mind.

Con. Thou speakest well—The knave who serves unto another’s needsKnows himself abler than the man who needs him;And she who stoops, will not forget, that stoopingImplies a height to stoop from.

Eliz. Could I seeMy Saviour in His poor!

Con. Thou shall hereafter:But now to wash Christ’s feet were dangerous honourFor weakling grace; would you be humble, daughter,You must look up, not down, and see yourselfA paltry atom, sap-transmitting veinOf Christ’s vast vine; the pettiest joint and memberOf His great body; own no strength, no will,Save that which from the ruling head’s commandThrough me, as nerve, derives; let thyself die—And dying, rise again to fuller life.To be a whole is to be small and weak—To be a part is to be great and mightyIn the one spirit of the mighty whole—The spirit of the martyrs and the saints—The spirit of the queen, on whose towered neckWe hang, blest ringlets!

Eliz. Why! thine eyes flash fire!

Con. But hush! such words are not for courts and halls—Alone with God and me, thou shalt hear more.

[Exit Conrad.]

Eliz. As when rich chanting ceases suddenly—And the rapt sense collapses!—Oh that LewisCould feed my soul thus! But to work—to work—What wilt thou, little maid? Ah, I forgot thee—Thy mother lies in childbed—Say, in timeI’ll bring the baby to the font myself.It knits them unto me, and me to them,That bond of sponsorship—How now, good dame—Whence then so sad?

Woman. An’t please your nobleness,My neighbour Gretl is with her husband laidIn burning fever.

Eliz. I will come to them.

Woman. Alack, the place is foul for such as you;And fear of plague has cleared the lane of lodgers;If you could send—

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