Poor child! I fear she hath sore need of prayer.
Hath she yet spoken?

Only such scant words
Of thanks or answer as our proffered service
Or questionings demand. When we are silent,
Even if she wake, she seemeth unaware
Of any presence. She will sit and wail,
Rocking upon the ground, with dull, wide eyes,
"Wheref rora the streaming tears unceasing course ;
The only sound that then escapes her lips
Is, " Father, Father ! " in such piteous strain
As though her rent heart bled to utter it.

Still she abides then by her first request
To take the black veil and its vows to-morrow ?

Yea, to that purpose desperately she clings.
This evening, if she rouse, she makes confession.
Even now a holy friar waits without,
Fra Bruno, of the order of Carthusians,
Beyond Palermo.