_Ans._ Hear _me_ now in turn, By the soul I've perill'd, we must _not_ part! Cast me but off, and Heav'n may do so too: Here stand I, Isidora, with one foot Upon Heaven's threshold, thou within the gates: Oh! call me to thee. I am Heaven's and thine: But, loose thy hand, and I will seek that hell Which lies beneath. The deed be on thy head.
_Ans._ Question me, Isidora. Where's the sin That, in thine eyes, demands such heavy penance?
_Ans._ Was made long ere I Knew its power or meaning, and was forced By those who thrust it on me in deceit; For well they knew it robb'd me of my birthright. 'Twas sin to make that vow; and were it not God's 'gerent here on earth hath power more ample To unloose, than monks to bind--thou'rt answer'd.
_Isid._ Answer'd, but not content--if false to vows More sacred far;--yet surely not more sacred,-- For what should be more sacred than the vows Which link the happiness of two in one Till death dissolves the union?--If false To Heav'n, Anselmo----
_Isid._ Touch not that chord--treat me not as woman, Easy to flattery, boastful of her charms: You know me not, Anselmo; but till late I scarcely knew myself. Talk not to me of Heaven's vicegerent: Can man absolve from compact made with God?
_Ans._ Isidora, it is now my duty T' assume the monitor, and point out to thee How e'en the purest of us, in our frailty, May haply slide. A maiden in her pride, But scarce in womanhood, dare to dispute The tenets of our faith, strikes at the head Of our religion; and what, for ages, Holy men have reverenced and believed, Hath been by her denounced as not her creed.
_Isid._ 'Tis true--'tis true. The sin of unbelief, 'Gainst which I've rail'd, I fall into myself, Swayed by my foolish pride. (_Turns to Anselmo._) But still, as yet Thou'rt bound, Anselmo--e'en this discourse, Methinks, is sacrilege.
_Ans._ Nay, Isidora, Does not the father, he whose spiritual sway I yet acknowledge, grant me this sweet bliss? And is the tender sanction of that saint, Our more than mother, nothing? As monk,-- And now I scarce am one,--it would seem I am an object of your utter hate.
_Isid._ Not hate, Anselmo--'tis a bitter word; Say rather fear--of what belongs to Heav'n. Was there no crime, Anselmo, when thou stol'st, Like a disguised thief, this trusting heart? What sophistry can'st thou put forth to show Thou should'st retain thy base, dishonest theft?