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CARLOS.

Ay; what strange tales, what secret horrid things,

In thy long course of ghostly ministry,
Have in thine ear been pour'd! By this good hand,
But that I did prefer the jointed mail
And weapon's stroke to haircloth and the scourge,
The roar of battle to the chaunting choir,
I had become a friar, to learn, like thee,
All those dark mysteries of human nature
To which thy mind is conscious.

FRIAR.

Gentle son!

Pardon my words; thou talk'st in ignorance.
A tale of guilt, wrung from the sinner's soul,
Strikes not the fancy like a winter's tale
Of moonlight witchery, or murder done
I' th' secret chamber. No; a counter sympathy
Doth quell the fancy then. Thou speak'st in ignorance.

CARLOS.

True, Father, this may be. With your permission

I will attend you to the gate.

FRIAR.

Not now.

I'm summon'd: Don Henriquez waits for me.