[Monk _goes_.]
Said I well,
That prayer would burgeon into pomp for me?
That God would hear his own elect who cried?
Now for a shrine, so glowing in the means
That it shall draw the eyes by power of light!
So tender in conceit, that it shall draw
The heart by very strength of delicateness,
And move proud thought to worship!
I must act
With caution now; must win his confidence;
Question him of the secret enemies
That fight against his soul; and lead him thus
To tell me, by degrees, his history.
So shall I find the truth, and lay foundation
For future acts, as circumstance requires.
For if the tale be true that he is rich,
And if----

_Re-enter _Monk _in haste and terror_.

_Monk_.
He's gone, my lord! His cell is empty.

_Abbot_ (_starting up_).
What! You are crazy! Gone?
His cell is empty?

_Monk_.
'Tis true as death, my lord. Witness, these eyes!