A strange wild voice still warns us back again,
"Hush! for the boy is sleeping." It would seem
He will not think that Death hath struck the babe,
But blinds his willing soul, and deems it sleep.

MONK.

A longer sleep, whose waking is not here!
Poor soul! that, catching at the skirts of Truth.
Muffleth his eyes that he may see her not.

MORGAN.

Good Father! go thou to him, for this doubt
That lays its stony spell upon his heart,
Is sadder far than tears--

MONK.

It is mine office
Still to bear balm unto the bleeding heart;
Then lead on, friend, and let us trust in Heaven.

[_They pass in_.


II.--_In the Chamber._

LLEWELLYN _and_ MONK.