They snatched it thankless (was it not their own? 
Wrung from their veins, returning all too late?);
Or in the new delight of rare possession,
Forgot the giver; one did sit apart,
And shivered on a stone; beneath her rags
Nestled two impish, fleshless, leering boys,
Grown old before their youth; they cried for bread—­
She chid them down, and hid her face and wept;
I had given all—­I took my cloak, my shoes
(What could I else?  ’Twas but a moment’s want
Which she had borne, and borne, day after day),
And clothed her bare gaunt arms and purpled feet,
Then slunk ashamed away to wealth and honour.

[Conrad enters.]

What!  Conrad? unannounced!  This is too bold! 
Peace!  I have lent myself—­and I must take
The usury of that loan:  your pleasure, master?

Con.  Madam, but yesterday, I bade your presence,
To hear the preached word of God; I preached—­
And yet you came not.—­Where is now your oath? 
Where is the right to bid, you gave to me? 
Am I your ghostly guide?  I asked it not. 
Of your own will you tendered that, which, given,
Became not choice, but duty.—­What is here? 
Think not that alms, or lowly-seeming garments,
Self-willed humilities, pride’s decent mummers,
Can raise above obedience; she from God
Her sanction draws, while these we forge ourselves,
Mere tools to clear her necessary path. 
Go free—­thou art no slave:  God doth not own
Unwilling service, and His ministers
Must lure, not drag in leash; henceforth I leave thee: 
Riot in thy self-willed fancies; pick thy steps
By thine own will-o’-the-wisp toward the pit;
Farewell, proud girl. [Exit Conrad.]

Eliz.  O God!  What have I done? 
I have cast off the clue of this world’s maze,
And, like an idiot, let my boat adrift
Above the waterfall!—­I had no message—­
How’s this?

Isen.  We passed it by, as matter of no moment
Upon the sudden coming of your guests.

Eliz.  No moment!  ’Tis enough to have driven him forth—­
And that’s enough to damn me:  I’ll not chide you—­
I can see nothing but my loss; I’ll to him—­
I’ll go in sackcloth, bathe his feet with tears—­
And know nor sleep nor food till I am forgiven—­
And you must with me, ladies.  Come and find him.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE V

A Hall in the Castle.  In the background a Group of diseased and deformed Beggars; Conrad entering, Elizabeth comes forward to meet him.

Con.  What dost thou, daughter?

Eliz.  Ah, my honoured master! 
That name speaks pardon, sure.

Con.  What dost thou, daughter?

Eliz.  I have been washing these poor people’s feet.

Con.  A wise humiliation.

Eliz.  So I meant it—­
And use it as a penance for my pride;
And yet, alas, through my own vulgar likings
Or stubborn self-conceit, ’tis none to me. 
I marvel how the Saints thus tamed their spirits: 
Sure to be humbled by such toil, but proves,
Not cures, our lofty mind.