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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.

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.

True, Father, this may be. With your permission I will attend you to the gate.

Not now. I'm summon'd: Don Henriquez waits for me.