In battle’s clamor only will it pass,

But in my lonelier moments it comes in;—

The awful memory of one heinous sin.

Hermit. Of truth thou hast suffered over much, my son.

What is thy sin?

Arthur. One deed beyond all others of my youth.

Mad passionate and wild to savagery,

I violated a maid’s sanctuary,

And afterwards, I found,—O Christ forgive me!

Hermit. Say on!

Arthur. She was my sister!

Hermit. Sancta Maria—Ora pro nobis!

Arthur. It will not out. The evil of that night

When I, unknowing, did that awful deed,

Hath blackened all my future like a web.

And when men look up to me as their sun,

It makes my life seem like some whited tower,

Where all is foul and hideous hid within.

Hermit. Thou sayest truth, my son, thy sin be heavy.

[Crossing himself.

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