Second Monk. Ebremar will stamp

Second Monk. Ebremar will stamp This heathen horde away. You need not hope; And know you not she kissed that pious child With poisonous lips, and he is pining since?

First Monk. You're full of wordiness. Come, hear my song.

Second Monk. In truth an evil race; why strive for her, A little Moorish girl?

Second Inquisitor. Small worth.

First Monk. My song—

First Inquisitor. I had a sister like her once my friend.

[Touching the first Monk on the shoulder.]

Where is our brother Peter? When you're nigh, He is not far. I'd have him speak for her. I saw his jovial mood bring once a smile To sainted Ebremar's sad eyes. I think He loves our brother Peter in his heart. If Peter would but ask her life—who knows?

First Monk. He digs his cabbages. He brings to mind That song I've made—is of a Russian tale Of Holy Peter of the Burning Gate: A saint of Russia in a vision saw