Lys. What ails the King, that thus his brow is bent

By such a load of care?

King.

Lysimachus,

The load of empire lies a weary weight,

On age-worn brains; tho' skies and seas may smile,

And steadfast favouring Fortune sit serene,

2

Guiding the helm of State, but well thou knowest—

None better in my realm—through what wild waves,

Quicksands, and rock-fanged straits, our Bosphorus,

Laden with all our love, reels madly on

To shipwreck and to ruin. From the North,

Storm-cloud on storm-cloud issuing vollies forth

Fresh thunderbolts of war. The Emperor

Dallies within his closed seraglios,

Letting his eunuchs waste the might of Rome,

While the fierce Scythian, in a surge of blood,

Bursts on our bare-swept plains. Upon the South,

Our rival Cherson, with a jealous eye,

Waits on our adverse chances, taking joy

Of her republican guile in every check

And buffet envious Fortune deals our State,

Which doth obey a King. Of all our foes

I hate and dread these chiefly, for I fear

Lest, when my crown falls from my palsied brow,

3

My son Asander's youth may prove too weak

To curb these crafty burghers. Speak, I pray thee,

Most trusty servant. Can thy loyal brain

Devise some scheme whereby our dear-loved realm

May break the mesh of Fate?

Lys.

Indeed, my liege,

Too well I know our need, and long have tossed

Through sleepless nights, if haply I might find

Some remedy, but that which I have found

Shows worse than the disease.

King.

Nay, speak; what is it?

I know how wise thy thought.

Lys.

My liege, it chances

The Archon Lamachus is old and spent.

He has an only child, a daughter, Gycia,

The treasure of his age, who now blooms forth

In early maidenhood. The girl is fair

As is a morn in springtide; and her father

4

A king in all but name, such reverence

His citizens accord him. Were it not well

The Prince Asander should contract himself

In marriage to this girl, and take the strength

Of Cherson for her dowry, and the power

Of their strong fleets and practised arms to thrust

The invading savage backward?

King.

Nay, my lord;

No more of this, I pray. There is no tribe

Of all the blighting locust swarms of war,

Which sweep our wasted fields, I would not rather

Take to my heart and cherish than these vipers.

Dost thou forget, my lord, how of old time,

In the brave days of good Sauromatus,

These venomous townsmen, shamelessly allied

With the barbarian hosts, brought us to ruin;

Or, with the failing force of Cæsar leagued,

By subtle devilish enginery of war,

5

Robbed Bosphorus of its own, when, but for them,

Byzantium were our prey, and all its might,

And we Rome's masters? Nay; I swear to thee,

I would rather see the Prince dead at my feet,

I would rather see our loved State sunk and lost,

Than know my boy, the sole heir of my crown,

The sole hope of my people, taken and noosed

By this proud upstart girl. Speak not of it;

Ruin were better far.

Lys.

My liege, I bear

No greater favour to these insolent townsmen

Than thou thyself. I, who have fought with them

From my first youth—who saw my father slain,

Not in fair fight, pierced through by honest steel,

But unawares, struck by some villanous engine,

Which, armed with inextinguishable fire,

Flew hissing from the walls and slew at once

Coward and brave alike; I, whose young brother,

6

The stripling who to me was as a son,

Taken in some sally, languished till he died,

Chained in their dungeons' depths;—must I not hate them

With hate as deep as hell? And yet I know

There is no other way than that Asander

Should wed this woman. This alone can staunch

The bleeding wounds of the State.

King.

Lysimachus,

I am old; my will is weak, my body bent,

Not more than is my mind; I cannot reason.

But hark! I hear the ring of coursers' feet

Bespeak Asander coming. What an air

Of youth and morning breathes round him, and brings

A light of hope again!

Asan. My dearest sire and King, art thou thus grave

Of choice, or does our good Lysimachus,

7

Bringing unwonted loads of carking care,

O'ercloud thy brow? I prithee, father, fret not;

There is no cloud of care I yet have known—

And I am now a man, and have my cares—

Which the fresh breath of morn, the hungry chase,

The echoing horn, the jocund choir of tongues,

Or joy of some bold enterprise of war,

When the swift squadrons smite the echoing plains,

Scattering the stubborn spearmen, may not break,

As does the sun the mists. Nay, look not grave;

My youth is strong enough for any burden

Fortune can set on me.

King.

Couldst thou, Asander,

Consent to serve the State, if it should bid thee

Wed without love?

Asan.

What, father, is that all?

I do not know this tertian fever, love,

Of which too oft my comrades groan and sigh,

8

This green-sick blight, which turns a lusty soldier

To a hysterical girl. Wed without love?

One day I needs must wed, though love I shall not.

And if it were indeed to serve the State,

Nay, if 'twould smooth one wrinkle from thy brow,

Why, it might be to-morrow. Tell me, father,

Who is this paragon that thou designest

Shall call me husband? Some barbarian damsel

Reared on mare's milk, and nurtured in a tent

In Scythia? Well, 'twere better than to mate

With some great lady from the Imperial Court,

Part tigress and all wanton. I care not;

Or if the scheme miscarry, I care not.

Tell me, good father.

King.

Wouldst thou wed, Asander,

If 'twere to save the State, a Greek from Cherson?

Asan. From Cherson? Nay, my liege; that were too much.

9

A girl from out that cockatrice's den—

Take such a one to wife? I would liefer take

A viper to my breast! Nay, nay, you jest,

My father, for you hate this low-born crew,

Grown gross by huckstering ways and sordid craft—

Ay, more than I.

King.

It is no jest, my son.

Our good Lysimachus will tell thee all

Our need and whence it comes.

Lys.

My gracious Prince,

Thus stands the case, no otherwise. Our foes

Press closer year by year, our widespread plains

Are ravaged, and our bare, unpeopled fields

Breed scantier levies; while the treasury

Stands empty, and we have not means to buy

The force that might resist them. Nought but ruin,

Speedy, inevitable, can await

Our failing Bosphorus' unaided strength,

10

Unless some potent rich ally should join

Our weakness to her might. None other is there

To which to look but Cherson; and I know,

From trusty friends among them, that even now,

Perchance this very day, an embassy

Comes to us with design that we should sink

Our old traditional hate in the new bonds

Which Hymen binds together. For the girl

Gycia, the daughter of old Lamachus,

Their foremost man, there comes but one report—

That she is fair as good.

Asan.

My lord, I pray you,

Waste not good breath. If I must sell myself,

It matters not if she be fair or foul,

Angel or doubly damned; hating the race,

Men, maidens, young and old, I would blight my life

To save my country.

11

King.

Thanks, my dearest son.

There spake a patriot indeed.

Servant.

My liege,

An embassy from Cherson for the King.

Asan. Insolent hounds!

This is too much. I will have none of them.

Take back that message.

King.

Thou art right, my son.

I could not bear to lose thee, not to win

A thousand Chersons. Let us fight alone,

And see what fortune sends us.

Lys.

Good my liege,

Be not too hasty. (To Ambassador) Sir, the King has heard

The message which you bring, and presently

Will send a fitting answer.

[Exit Ambassador.

Nay, my liege,

I beg your patience. That these fellows make

Their friendship difficult is true; but think

How great the value of it, and remember

How easy 'tis to promise and break faith

With insolent dogs like these. This Lamachus

Is older than your grace, and feebler far.

He will not live for ever, and, he gone,

Will not the Prince Asander be as great,

The husband of his daughter and his heir,

As he is now, and sway the power of Cherson

For our own ends, and cast to all the winds

This foul enforcèd compact, and o'erturn

This commonwealth of curs? I will stake my life

That three years shall not pass ere he is King

Of Cherson in possession, and at once

Of Bosphorus next heir.

"The tongue hath sworn, the mind remains unsworn,"

So says their poet.

Asan.

I'll have none of it.

15

I am not all Greek, but part Cimmerian,

And scorn to break my word.

Let us face ruin, father, not deceit.

King. My noble son, I love thee.

Lys.

Good my liege,

And thou, my Lord Asander, ponder it.

Consider our poor country's gaping wounds,

And what a remedy lies to our hands.

I will die willingly if I devise not

A scheme to bend these upstarts to your will.

Asan. My liege, I do your will,

Though with a heavy heart. Farewell, my father.

If I must bid farewell to this dear City,

Which nourished me from childhood, 'tis to save it,

Not otherwise, and thou my sire and King.

From thee I do not part, and oftentimes,

If the saints will, I yet shall welcome thee,

When all our foes are routed and our troubles

Fled like some passing storm-cloud, to my hearth,

And set thy heir upon thy knees, a Prince

Of Bosphorus and Cherson.

King.

Good, my son.

I pray God keep you, for I dimly fear,

So dark a presage doth obscure my mind,

That we shall meet no more.

Lys.

My honoured liege,

23

These are the figments of a mind which grief

Hath part disordered. Thou shalt see thy son,

Trust me for it; I swear it. One thing more

Remains. I know what 'tis to be a youth

As yet untouched by love; I know what charm

Lies in the magic of a woman's eyes

For a young virgin heart. I pray you, sir,

Swear to me by the saints, that, come what may,

For no allurement which thy new life brings thee,

The love of wife or child, wilt thou forget

Our Bosphorus, but still wilt hold her weal

Above all other objects of thy love

In good or adverse fortune.

Asan.

Nay, my lord,

There is no need for oaths; yet will I swear it,

Here on this soldier's cross.

[Makes a cross with the hilt of his sword.

Farewell, my father,

24

I mar my manhood, staying.

King.

Farewell, son.

Let my old eyes fix on thee till thou goest

Beneath the farthest verge. Good Megacles,

And you brave gentlemen, be faithful all

To me and to your Prince.

Lys.

My Lord Asander,

Remember!

Gycia.

Sweetest Irene,

What joy it is to see thee once again

After so long an absence! We had grown

Together on one stalk so long, since first

Our girlish lives began to burst to flower,

That it was hard to part us. But methinks

That something of the rose from off thy cheek

Has faded, and its rounded outline fair

Seems grown a little thinner.

Ire.

Gycia,

26

The flower, once severed from the stalk, no more

Grows as before.

Gycia.

Thou strange girl, to put on

Such grave airs! Ah! I fear at Bosphorus

Some gay knight has bewitched thee; thou hast fallen

In love, as girls say—though what it may be

To fall in love, I know not, thank the gods,

Having much else to think of.

Ire.

Prithee, dear,

Speak not of this.

Gycia.

Ah! then I know 'tis true.

Confess what manner of thing love is.

Ire. Nay, nay, I cannot tell thee (weeping), Gycia;

Thou knowest not what thou askest. What is love?

Seek not to know it. 'Tis to be no more

Thy own, but all another's; 'tis to dwell

By day and night on one fixed madding thought,

Till the form wastes, and with the form the heart

27

Is warped from right to wrong, and can forget

All that it loved before, faith, duty, country,

Friendship, affection—everything but love.

Seek not to know it, dear; or, knowing it,

Be happier than I.

Gycia.

My poor Irene!

Then, 'tis indeed a misery to love.

I do repent that I have tortured thee

By such unthinking jests. Forgive me, dear,

I will speak no more of it; with me thy secret

Is safe as with a sister. Shouldst thou wish

To unburden to me thy unhappy heart,

If haply I might bring thy love to thee.

Thou shalt his name divulge and quality,

And I will do my best.

Ire.

Never, dear Gycia.

Forget my weakness; 'twas a passing folly,

I love a man who loves me not again,

28

And that is very hell. I would die sooner

Than breathe his name to thee. Farewell, dear lady!

Thou canst not aid me.

Gycia.

Hapless girl! Praise Heaven

That I am fancy-free!

Lama. My dearest daughter, why this solemn aspect?

I have glad news for thee. Thou knowest of old

The weary jealousies, the bloody feuds,

Which 'twixt our Cherson and her neighbour City

Have raged ere I was born—nay, ere my grandsire

First saw the light of heaven. Both our States

Are crippled by this brainless enmity.

And now the Empire, now the Scythian, threatens

Destruction to our Cities, whom, united,

We might defy with scorn. Seeing this weakness,

Thy father, wishful, ere his race be run,

29

To save our much-loved Cherson, sent of late

Politic envoys to our former foe,

And now—i' faith, I am not so old, 'twould seem

That I have lost my state-craft—comes a message.

The Prince Asander, heir of Bosphorus,

Touches our shores to-day, and presently

Will be with us.

Gycia.

Oh, father, is it wise?

Do fire and water mingle? Does the hawk

Mate with the dove; the tiger with the lamb;

The tyrant with the peaceful commonwealth;

Fair commerce with the unfruitful works of war?

What union can there be 'twixt our fair city

And this half-barbarous race? 'Twere against nature

To bid these opposite elements combine—

The Greek with the Cimmerian. Father, pray you,

Send them away, with honour if you please,

And soothing words and gifts—only, I pray you,

30

Send them away, this Prince who doth despise us,

And his false retinue of slaves.

Lama.

My daughter,

Thy words are wanting in thy wonted love

And dutiful observance. 'Twere an insult

Unwashed by streams of bloodshed, should our City

Scorn thus the guests it summoned. Come they must,

And with all hospitable care and honour,

Else were thy sire dishonoured. Thou wilt give them

A fitting welcome.

Gycia.

Pardon me, my father,

That I spoke rashly. I obey thy will.

Lama. Stay, Gycia. Dost thou know what 'tis to love?

Gycia. Ay, thee, dear father.

Lama.

Nay, I know it well.

But has no noble youth e'er touched thy heart?

Gycia. None, father, Heaven be praised! The young Irene

31

Was with me when thou cam'st, and all her life

Seems blighted by this curse of love—for one

Whose name she hides, with whom in Bosphorus

She met, when there she sojourned. Her young brother,

The noble Theodorus, whom thou knowest,

Lets all the world go by him and grows pale

For love, and pines, and wherefore?—For thy daughter,

Who knows not what love means, and cannot brook

Such brain-sick folly. Nay, be sure, good father,

I love not thus, and shall not.

Lama.

Well, well, girl,

Thou wilt know it yet. I fetter not thy choice,

But if thou couldst by loving bind together

Not two hearts only, but opposing peoples;

Supplant by halcyon days long years of strife,

And link them in unbroken harmony;—

Were this no glory for a woman, this

No worthy price of her heart?

Gycia.

Tell me, I pray,

What mean you by this riddle?

Lama.

Prince Asander

Comes here to ask your hand, and with it take

A gracious dower of peace and amity.

He does not ask thee to forsake thy home,

But leaves for thee his own. All tongues together

Are full of praise of him: virgin in love,

A brave youth in the field, as we have proved

In many a mortal fight; a face and form

Like a young god's. I would, my love, thy heart

Might turn to him, and find thy happiness

In that which makes me happy. I am old

And failing, and I fain would see thee blest

Before I die, and at thy knees an heir

To all my riches, and the State of Cherson

From anxious cares delivered, and through thee.

Gycia. Father, we are of the Athenian race,

33

Which was the flower of Hellas. Ours the fame

Of Poets, Statesmen, Orators, whose works

And thoughts upon the forehead of mankind

Shine like a precious jewel; ours the glory

Of those great Soldiers who by sea and land

Scattered the foemen to the winds of heaven,

First in the files of time. And though our mother,

Our Athens, sank, crushed by the might of Rome,

What is Rome now?—An Empire rent in twain;

An Empire sinking 'neath the unwieldy weight

Of its own power; an Empire where the Senate

Ranks lower than the Circus, and a wanton

Degrades the Imperial throne. But though to its fall

The monster totters, this our Cherson keeps

The bravery of old, and still maintains

The old Hellenic spirit and some likeness

Of the fair Commonwealth which ruled the world.

Surely, my father, 'tis a glorious spring

34

Drawn from the heaven-kissed summits whence we come;

And shall we, then, defile our noble blood

By mixture with this upstart tyranny

Which fouls the Hellenic pureness of its source

In countless bastard channels? If our State

Ask of its children sacrifice, 'tis well.

It shall be given; only I prithee, father,

Seek not that I should with barbaric blood

Taint the pure stream, which flows from Pericles.

Let me abide unwedded, if I may,

A Greek girl as before.

Lama.

Daughter, thy choice

Is free as air to accept or to reject

This suitor; only, in the name of Cherson,

Do nothing rashly, and meanwhile take care

That nought that fits a Grecian State be wanting

To do him honour.

Gycia.

Sir, it shall be done.

Lama. We bid you heartfelt welcome, Prince, to Cherson.

That we have seemed to fail to do you honour

Comes of the spite of fortune. For your highness,

39

Taking the land at the entrance of the port,

Missed what of scanty pomp our homely manners

Would fain have offered; but we pray you think

'Twas an untoward accident, no more.

Welcome to Cherson, Prince!

Asan.

Methinks, my lord,

Scarce in the meanest State is it the custom

To ask the presence of a noble guest

With much insistance, and when he accepts

The summons, and has come, to set on him

With insolent dogs like these.

Lama.

Nay, Prince, I pray you,

What is it that has been?

Asan.

Our chamberlain

Was lately, in your absence, which your highness

So glibly doth excuse, set on and beaten

By these dogs here.

Lama.

Nay, sir, they are not dogs,

40

But citizens of honour; yet indeed

Wanting, I fear, in that deep courtesy

Which from a stranger and a guest refuses

To take provoked offence. My lord, indeed

I am ashamed that citizens of Cherson

Should act so mean a part. Come, Prince, I pray you

Forget this matter, and be sure your coming

Fills me with joy. Go, tell the Lady Gycia

The Prince is safe in Cherson.

Asan.

Good Megacles,

Forewarned I am forearmed.

(Aside) Thou fluent trickster!

Fit head of such a State! I would to Heaven

I had never come!

Nay, nay, I thank the saints

That I have come. Who is this peerless creature?

Is this the old man's daughter?

Lama.

Prince Asander,

This is my daughter, Gycia. Of the prince

Thou hast heard many a time, my daughter.

Gycia (confused).

Ay!—

Indeed I——

Lama.

Come, my girl, thou art not used

To fail of words.

Asan. Nay, sir, I pray you press her not to speak.

And yet I fain would hear her. Artemis

Showed not so fair, nor with a softer charm

Came Hebe's voice.

Gycia.

Nay, sir, I did not know

A soldier could thus use a courtier's tongue.

Asan. If being bred in courts would give me power

To put my thought in words, then would I fain

Be courtier for thy sake.

Gycia.

Ah, sir, you jest.

The ways of courts we know not, but I bid thee

Good welcome to our city, and I prithee

Command whatever service our poor Cherson

Can give whilst thou art here. (To Megacles) Pray you, my lord,

Accompany his Highness and our household

To the apartments which our serving men

Have now prepared. They are but poor, I know,

43

For one who lives the stately life of kings;

But such as our poor means can reach they are.

Meg. My lady, I have lived long time in courts,

But never, in the palaces of Rome,

Have I seen beauty such as yours, or grace

More worthy of a crown. (To Melissa) To you, my lady,

I bow with most respectful homage. Surely

The goddess Heré has not left the earth

While you are here, I humbly take my leave

For the present of your Highness with a thousand

Obeisances, and to your gracious father

Humbly I bend the knee. My Lord Asander,

I do attend your Highness.

Mel.

What a man!

What noble manners! What a polished air!

How poor to such a courtier our rude Court

And humble manners show!

Asan.

Good Megacles,

44

Get me to my chamber—quick, ere I o'erpass

All reasonable limits. I am sped;

I am myself no more.

Lama.

Farewell awhile.

We will welcome you at supper.

Lama.

Well, my daughter,

What think you of this hot-brained youth? I' faith,

I like his soldier's bluntness, and he seemed

To be a little startled, as I thought,

By something which he saw when thou didst come.

Perchance it was the charm of one who came

Among thy ladies took him.

Gycia.

Nay, my father,

I think not so indeed.

Lama.

Ah! well, I am old,

And age forgets. But this I tell thee, daughter:

If in my youth I had seen a young man's gaze

45

Grow troubled, and he should start, and his cheek pale,

A young girl drawing near, I had almost thought

Him suddenly in love.

Gycia.

Oh, nay indeed!

Who should be favoured thus? There is no woman

In our poor Cherson worthy that his gaze

Might rest on her a moment.

Lama.

Ah, my girl,

Is it thus with thee? They say that love is blind,

And thou art blind, therefore it may be, Gycia,

That thou too art in love. Tell me how it is.

Couldst thou love this man, if he loved thee?

Gycia (throwing herself on her father's neck). Father!

Lama. Say no more, girl. I am not so old as yet

That I have quite forgotten my own youth,

When I was young and loved; and if I err not,

I read love's fluttering signals on thy cheek,

And in his tell-tale eyes. But listen! Music!

We must prepare for supper with our guests.

Asan. Come, Gycia, let us take the soft sweet air

Beneath the star of love. The festive lights

Still burn within the hall, where late we twain

Troth-plighted sate, and I from out thine eyes

Drank long, deep draughts of love stronger than wine.

And still the minstrels sound their dulcet strains,

Which then I heard not, since my ears were filled

With the sweet music of thy voice. My sweet,

How blest it is, left thus alone with love,

To hear the love-lorn nightingales complain

Beneath the star-gemmed heavens, and drink cool airs

Fresh from the summer sea! There sleeps the main

Which once I crossed unwilling. Was it years since,

In some old vanished life, or yesterday?

When saw I last my father and the shores

Of Bosphorus? Was it days since, or years,

Tell me, thou fair enchantress, who hast wove

So strong a spell around me?

Gycia.

Nay, my lord;

Tell thou me first what magic 'tis hath turned

A woman who had scoffed so long at love

Until to-day—to-day, whose blessed night

Is hung so thick with stars—to feel as I,

That I have found the twin life which the gods

Retained when mine was fashioned, and must turn

To what so late was strange, as the flower turns

To the sun; ay, though he withers her, or clouds

Come 'twixt her and her light, turns still to him.

And only gazing lives.

Asan.

Thou perfect woman!

And art thou, then, all mine? What have I done,

What have I been, that thus the favouring gods

And the consentient strength of hostile States

Conspire to make me happy? Ah! I fear,

Lest too great happiness be but a snare

Set for our feet by Fate, to take us fast

And then despoil our lives.

Gycia.

My love, fear not.

We have found each other, and no power has strength

To put our lives asunder.

Asan.

Thus I seal

Our contract with a kiss.

Gycia.

Oh, happiness!

To love and to be loved! And yet methinks

Love is not always thus. To some he brings

Deep disappointment only, and the pain

Of melancholy years. I have a lady

Who loves, but is unloved. Poor soul! she lives

A weary life. Some youth of Bosphorus

Stole her poor heart.

Asan.

Of Bosphorus saidst thou?

And her name is?

Gycia.

Irene. Didst thou know her?

Asan. Nay, love, or if I did I have forgot her.

Gycia. Poor soul! to-day when first we met, she saw

Her lover 'midst thy train and swooned away.

Asan. Poor heart! This shall be seen to. Tell me, Gycia,

Didst love me at first sight?

Gycia.

Unreasonable,

To bid me tell what well thou knowest already.

Thou know'st I did. And when did love take thee?

Asan. I was wrapt up in spleen and haughty pride,

When, looking up, a great contentment took me,

Shed from thy gracious eyes. Nought else I saw,

Than thy dear self.

Gycia. And hadst thou ever loved?

Asan.

Never, dear Gycia.

I have been so rapt in warlike enterprises

Or in the nimble chase, all my youth long,

That never had I looked upon a woman

With thought of love before, though it may be

That some had thought of me, being a Prince

And heir of Bosphorus.

Gycia.

Not for thyself;

That could not be. Deceiver!

Asan.

Nay, indeed!

Gycia. Oh, thou dear youth!

Asan.

I weary for the day

When we our mutual love shall crown with marriage.

Gycia. Not yet, my love, we are so happy now.

Asan. But happier then, dear Gycia.

Gycia.

Nay, I know not

If I could bear it and live. But hark, my love!

The music ceases, and the sated guests

55

Will soon be sped. Thou must resume thy place

Of honour for a little. I must go,

If my reluctant feet will bear me hence,

To dream of thee the livelong night. Farewell,

Farewell till morning. All the saints of heaven

Have thee in keeping!

Asan.

Go not yet, my sweet;

And yet I bid thee go. Upon thy lips

I set love's seal, thus, thus.

[Kisses her. They embrace.

Good night!

Gycia.

Good night!

Asan. Ah, sweetest, best of women! paragon

Of all thy sex, since first thy ancestress

Helen, the curse of cities and of men,

56

Marshalled the hosts of Greece! But she brought discord;

Thou, by thy all-compelling sweetness, peace

And harmony for strife. What have I done,

I a rough soldier, like a thousand others

Upon our widespread plains, to have won this flower

Of womanhood—this jewel for the front

Of knightly pride to wear, and, wearing it,

Let all things else go by? To think that I,

Fool that I was, only a few hours since,

Bemoaned the lot which brought me here and bade me

Leave my own land, which now sinks fathoms deep

Beyond my memory's depths, and scarce would deign

To obey thee, best of fathers, when thy wisdom

Designed to make me blest! Was ever woman

So gracious and so comely? And I scorned her

For her Greek blood and love of liberty!

Fool! purblind fool! there is no other like her;

57

I glory being her slave.

Irene. I pray you, pardon me, my Lord Asander.

I seek the Lady Gycia; is she here?

Asan. No, madam; she has gone, and with her taken

The glory of the night. But thou dost love her—

Is it not so, fair lady?

Ire.

Ay, my lord,

For we have lived together all our lives;

I could not choose but love.

Asan.

Well said indeed.

Tell me, and have I seen thy face before?

A something in it haunts me.

Ire.

Ay, my lord.

Am I forgot so soon?

Asan.

Indeed! Thy name?

Where have I seen thee?

Ire.

Where? Dost thou, then, ask?

Asan. Ay; in good truth, my treacherous memory

58

Betrays me here.

Ire.

Thou mayest well forget

My name, if thou hast quite forgot its owner.

[Weeps.

I am called Irene.

Asan.

Strange! the very name

My lady did relate to me as hers

Who bears a hopeless love. Weep not, good lady;

Take comfort. Heaven is kind.

Ire.

Nay, my good lord,

What comfort? He I love loves not again,

Or not me, but another.

Asan.

Ah, poor lady!

I pity you indeed, now I have known

True recompense of love.

Ire.

Dost thou say pity?

And pity as they tell's akin to love.

What comfort is for me, my Lord Asander,

Who love one so exalted in estate

59

That all return of honourable love

Were hopeless, as if I should dare to raise

My eyes to Cæsar's self? What comfort have I,

If lately I have heard this man I love

Communing with his soul, when none seemed near,

Betray a heart flung prostrate at the feet

Of another, not myself; and well I know

Not Lethe's waters can wash out remembrance

Of that o'ermastering passion—naught but death

Or hopeless depths of crime?

Asan.

Lady, I pity

Thy case, and pray thy love may meet return.

Ire. Then wilt thou be the suppliant to thyself,

And willing love's requital, Oh, requite it!

Thou art my love, Asander—thou, none other,

There is naught I would not face, if I might win thee.

That I a woman should lay bare my soul;

Disclose the virgin secrets of my heart

60

To one who loves me not, and doth despise

The service I would tender!

Asan.

Cease, I pray you;

These are distempered words.

Ire.

Nay, they are true.

And come from the inner heart. Leave these strange shores

And her you love. I know her from a child.

She is too high and cold for mortal love;

Too wrapt in duty, and high thoughts of State,

Artemis and Athené fused in one,

Ever to throw her life and maiden shame

As I do at thy feet.

Asan.

Rise, lady, rise;

I am not worthy such devotion.

Ire.

Take me

Over seas; I care not where. I'll be thy slave,

Thy sea-boy; follow thee, ill-housed, disguised,

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Through hardship and through peril, so I see

Thy face sometimes, and hear sometimes thy voice,

For I am sick with love.

Asan.

Lady, I prithee

Forget these wild words. I were less than man

Should I remember them, or take the gift

Which 'tis not reason offers. I knew not

Thy passion nor its object, nor am free

To take it, for the vision of my soul

Has looked upon its sun, and turns no more

To any lower light.

Ire.

My Lord Asander,

She is not for thee; she cannot make thee happy,

Nor thou her. Oh, believe me! I am full

Of boding thoughts of the sure fatal day

Which shall dissolve in blood the bonds which love

To-day has plighted. If thou wilt not take me,

Then get thee gone alone. I see a fire

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Which burns more fierce than love, and it consumes thee.

Fly with me, or alone, but fly.

Asan.

Irene,

Passion distracts thy brain. I pray you, seek

Some mutual love as I. My heart is fixed,

And gone beyond recall.

Ire. (weeping passionately). Disgraced! betrayed!

Rejected! All the madness of my love

Flung back upon me, as one spurns a gift

Who scorns the giver. That I love him still,

And cannot hate her who has robbed me of him!

I shall go mad with shame!

Theo.

Great Heaven! sister,

What words are these I hear? My father's daughter

Confessing to her shame!

[Irene weeps.

Come, tell me, woman;

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I am thy brother and protector, tell me

What mean these words?

Ire.

Nay, nay, I cannot, brother.

They mean not what they seem, indeed they do not.

Theo. They mean not what they seem! Thou hast been long

In Bosphorus, and ofttimes at the Court

Hast seen the Prince. When he to-day comes hither,

Thou swoonest at the sight. I, seeking thee,

Find thee at night alone, he having left thee,

Lamenting for thy shame. Wouldst have me credit

Thy innocence? Speak, if thou hast a word

To balance proofs like these, or let thy silence

Condemn thee.

Ire. (after a pause, and slowly, as if calculating consequences). Then do I keep silence, brother,

And let thy vengeance fall.

Theo.

Oh, long-dead mother,

Who now art with the saints, shut fast thy ears

Against thy daughter's shame! These are the things

That make it pain to live: all precious gifts,

Honour, observance, virtue, flung away

For one o'ermastering passion. Why are we

Above the brute so far, if we keep still

The weakness of the brute? Go from my sight,

Thou vile, degraded wretch. For him whose craft

And wickedness has wronged thee, this I swear—

I will kill him, if I can, or he shall me.

I will call on him to draw, and make my sword

Red with a villain's blood.

Ire. (eagerly).

Nay, nay, my brother,

That would proclaim my shame; and shouldst thou slay him,

Thou wouldst break thy lady's heart.

Theo.

Doth she so love him?

Ire. Ay, passionately, brother.

Theo.

Oh, just Heaven!

And oh, confusèd world!

How are we fettered here! I may not kill

A villain who has done my sister wrong,

Since she I love has given her heart to him,

And hangs upon his life. I would not pain

My Gycia with the smallest, feeblest pang

That wrings a childish heart, for all the world.

How, then, to kill her love, though killing him

Would rid the world of a villain, and would leave

My lady free to love? 'Twere not love's part

To pain her thus, not for the wealth and power

Of all the world heaped up. I tell thee, sister,

Thy paramour is safe—I will not seek

To do him hurt; but thou shalt go to-night

To my Bithynian castle. Haply thence,

After long penances and recluse days,

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Thou mayst return, and I may bear once more

To see my sister's face.

Ire.

Farewell, my brother!

I do obey; I bide occasion, waiting

For what the years may bring.

Theo.

Repent thy sin.

Gycia. What day is this, Asander? Canst thou tell me?

Asan. Not I, my love. All days are now alike;

The weeks fleet by, the days equivalent gems

Strung on a golden thread.

Gycia.

Thou careless darling!

I did not ask thee of the calendar.

Dost think a merchant's daughter knows not that?

Nay, nay; I only asked thee if thou knewest

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If aught upon this day had ever brought

Some great change to thee.

Asan.

Sweetest, dearest wife,

Our marriage! Thinkest thou I should forget,

Ay, though the chills of age had froze my brain,

That day of all my life?

Gycia.

Dost thou regret it?

I think thou dost not, but 'tis sweet to hear

The avowal from thy lips?

Asan.

Nay, never a moment.

And thou?

Gycia.

Nay, never for a passing thought.

I did not know what life was till I knew thee.

Dost thou remember it, how I came forth,

Looking incuriously to see the stranger,

And lo! I spied my love, and could not murmur

A word of courtesy?

Asan.

Dost thou remember

69

How I, a feverish and hot-brained youth,

Full of rash pride and princely arrogance,

Lifted my eyes and saw a goddess coming——

Gycia. Nay, a weak woman only.

Asan.

And was tamed

By the first glance?

Gycia.

What! are we lovers still,

After two years of marriage?

Asan.

Is it two years,

Or twenty? By my faith, I know not which,

For happy lives glide on like seaward streams

Which keep their peaceful and unruffled course

So smoothly that the voyager hardly notes

The progress of the tide. Ay, two years 'tis,

And now it seems a day, now twenty years,

But always, always happy.

[Embraces Gycia.

Gycia.

Yet, my love,

We have known trials too. My honoured sire

70

Has gone and left us since.

Asan.

Ay, he had reaped

The harvest of his days, and fell asleep

Amid the garnered sheaves.

Gycia.

Dearest, I know

He loved thee as a son, and always strove

To fit thee for the place within our State

Which one day should be thine. Sometimes I think,

Since he has gone, I have been covetous

Of thy dear love, and kept thee from the labour

Of State-craft, and the daily manly toils

Which do befit thy age; and I have thought,

Viewing thee with the jealous eyes of love,

That I have marked some shade of melancholy

Creep on when none else saw thee, and desired

If only I might share it.

Asan.

Nay, my love,

I have been happy truly, though sometimes,

71

It may be, I have missed the clear, brisk air

Of the free plains; the trumpet-notes of war,

When far against the sky the glint of spears

Lit by the rising sun revealed the ranks

Of the opposing host, the thundering onset

Of fierce conflicting squadrons, and the advance

Of the victorious hosts. Oh for the vigour

And freshness of such life! But I have chosen

To sleep on beds of down, as Cæsar might,

And live a woman's minion.

Gycia.

Good my husband,

Thou shouldst not speak thus. I would have thee win

Thy place in the Senate, rule our Cherson's fortunes,

Be what my father was without the name,

And gain that too in time.

Asan.

What! You would have me

Cozen, intrigue, and cheat, and play the huckster,

As your republicans, peace on their lips

72

And subtle scheming treaties, till the moment

When it is safe to spring? Would you have me cringe

To the ignorant mob of churls, through whose sweet voices

The road to greatness lies? Nay, nay; I am

A King's son, and of Bosphorus, not Cherson—

A Scythian more than Greek.

Gycia.

Nay, my good lord,

Scythian or Greek, to me thou art more dear

Than all the world beside. Yet will not duty,

The memory of the dead, the love of country,

The pride of the great race from which we spring,

Suffer my silence wholly, hearing thee.

It is not true that men Athenian-born

Are of less courage, less of noble nature,

More crafty in design, less frank of purpose,

Than are thy countrymen. They have met and fought them,

Thou knowest with what fate. For polity

73

I hold it better that self-governed men

Should, using freedom, but eschewing license,

Fare to what chequered fate the will of Heaven

Reserves for them, than shackled by the chains

The wisest tyrant, gilding servitude

With seeming gains, imposes. We are free

In speech, in council, in debate, in act,

As when our great Demosthenes hurled back

Defiance to the tyrant. Nay, my lord,

Forgive my open speech. I have not forgot

That we are one in heart and mind and soul,

Knit in sweet bonds for ever. Put from thee

This jaundiced humour.

If State-craft please not, by the headlong chase

Which once I know thou lovedst. Do not grudge

To leave me; for to-day my bosom friend,

After two years of absence, comes to me.

I shall not feel alone, having Irene.

Asan. Whom dost thou say? Irene?

Gycia.

Yes, the same

She was crossed in love, poor girl, dost thou remember,

When we were wed?

Asan.

Gycia, I mind it well.

Send her away—she is no companion for thee;

She is not fit, I say.

Gycia.

What is't thou sayest?

Thou canst know nought of her. Nay, I remember,

When I did ask thee if thou knewest her

At Bosphorus, thou answeredst that thou didst not.

Asan. I know her. She is no fit mate for thee.

Gycia. Then, thou didst know her when thy tongue denied it.

Asan. How 'tis I know her boots not; I forbid

My wife to know that woman. Send her hence.

Gycia. Nay, nay, my lord, it profits not to quarrel.

Thou art not thyself. Either thou knew'st her name

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When we were wedded, or unreasoning spleen

Doth blind thy judgment since. Thou canst not know her

Who has been absent.

Asan.

Ask no more, good wife;

I give no reason.

Gycia.

Nay, indeed, good husband,

Thou hast no reason, and without good reason

I will not spurn my friend.

Asan.

Gycia, forgive me;

I spoke but for our good, and I will tell thee

One day what stirs within me, but to-day

Let us not mar our happy memories

By any shade of discord.

Gycia.

Oh, my love,

Forgive me if I have seemed, but for a moment,

To fail in duty. I am all, all thine;

I have nought but thee to live for. Childish hands

And baby voices lisping for their mother

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Are not for me, nor thee; but, all in all,

We joy together, we sorrow together, and last

Shall die, when the hour comes, as something tells me,

Both in the selfsame hour.

Asan.

Nay, wife, we are young;

Our time is not yet come. Let us speak now

Of what I know thou holdest near thy heart.

I do remember that it was thy wish

To celebrate thy father's name and fame

By some high festal. If thy purpose hold

For such observance, the sad day which took him

Returns a short time hence; I will employ

Whatever wealth is mine to do him honour,

And thee, my Gycia. Honouring the sire,

I honour too the child.

Gycia.

My love, I thank thee

For this spontaneous kindness, and I love thee;

I am all thine own again. Come, let us go;

77

Nor spare the wealth wherewith his bounty blest us

To do fit honour to the illustrious dead.

[Exeunt.

My father ailing?

And asks for me, and I his only son

Chained here inactive, while the old man pines

In that great solitude which hems a thro

With none but hirelings round him. Dearest father,

I fear that sometimes in the happy years

Which have come since, my wandering regards,

Fixed on one overmastering thought, have failed

To keep their wonted duty. If indeed

This thing has been, I joy the time has come

When I may show my love. But I forget!

The fetters honour binds are adamant;

I am free no more. Nay, nay, there is no bond

Can bind a son who hears his father's voice

Call from a bed of pain. I must go and will,

Though all the world cry shame on my dishonour;

And with me I will take my love, my bride,

To glad the old man's eyes. My mind is fixed;

I cannot stay, I cannot rest, away

From Bosphorus. (Summons Messenger) Go, call the Lady Gycia.

(Resumes) Ay, and my oath, I had forgotten it.

I cannot bear to think what pitiless plot

Lysimachus has woven for the feast.

What it may be I know not, but I fear

Some dark and dreadful deed. 'Twere well enough

For one who never knew the friendly grasp

Of hands that once were foemen's. But for me,

Who have lived among them, come and gone with them,

Trodden with them the daily paths of life,

Mixed in their pleasures, shared their hopes and fears

For two long happy years, to turn and doom

Their city to ruin, and their wives and children

To the insolence of rapine? Nay, I dare not.

I will sail at once, and get me gone for ever.

I will not tell my love that I am bound

By her father's jealous fancies to return

To Bosphorus no more. To break my oath!

That were to break it only in the word,

But keep it in the spirit. Surely Heaven

For such an innocent perjury keeps no pains.

But here she comes.

Gycia.

Didst send for me, my lord?

Asan. Gycia, the King is ill, and asks for me;

He is alone and weak.

Gycia.

Then, fly to him

At once, and I will follow thee. But stay!

Is he in danger?

Asan.

Nay, not presently;

Only the increasing weight of years o'ersets

His feeble sum of force.

Gycia.

Keeps he his bed?

Asan. Not yet as I have known.

Gycia.

Well then, dear heart,

We yet may be in time if we should tarry

To celebrate the honours we have vowed

To my dead father. This day sennight brings

The day which saw him die.

Asan.

Nay, nay, my sweet;

'Twere best we went at once.

Gycia.

My lord, I honour

The love thou bearest him, but go I cannot,

Until the feast is done. 'Twould cast discredit

On every daughter's love for her dead sire,

If I should leave this solemn festival

With all to do, and let the envious crowd

Carp at the scant penurious courtesy

Of hireling honours by an absent daughter

To her illustrious dead.

Asan. (earnestly). My love, 'twere best

We both were far away.

Gycia.

My lord is pleased

To speak in riddles, but till reason speaks

'Twere waste of time to listen.

Asan.

Nay, my wife,

Such words become thee not, but to obey

Is the best grace of woman. Were I able,

I would tell thee all, I fear, for thee and me,

But cannot.

Gycia.

Then, love, thou canst go alone,

And I must follow thee. The Archon Zetho

Comes presently, to order what remains

To make the solemn festival do honour

To the blest memory of Lamachus.

Doubtless, he will devise some fitting pretext

To excuse thy absence.

Asan.

Nay, thou must not ask him;

Breathe not a word, I pray.

Gycia.

My good Asander,

What is it moves thee thus? See, here he comes.

Gycia. Good morrow, my Lord Zetho! We were late,

Debating of the coming festival,

And how my lord the Prince, having ill news

From Bosphorus, where the King his sire lies sick,

Can bear no part in it.

Zetho.

I grieve indeed

To hear this news, and trust that Heaven may send

Swift comfort to his son, whom we all love.

Asan. I thank thee, Archon, for thy courtesy;

And may thy wish come true.

Gycia. And meantime, since my husband's heart is sore

For his sire's lonelihood, our purpose is

That he should sail to-morrow and go hence

To Bosphorus, where I, the festival

Being done, will join him later, and devote

A daughter's loving care and tender hand

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To smooth the old man's sick-bed.

Zetho.

Nay, my daughter,

I grieve this cannot be. The Prince Asander,

Coming to Cherson only two years gone,

Did pledge his solemn word to thy dead father

That never would he seek, come foul or fair,

To turn from Cherson homewards, and I marvel

That never, in the years that since have passed

Amid the close-knit bonds of wedded lives,

He has revealed this secret. We who rule

Our Cherson know through what blind shoals of fortune

Our ship of state drives onward. And I dare not,

Holding the rule which was thy father's once,

Release him from the solemn pledge which keeps

Our several States bound fast in amity,

But each from the other separate, and each

Free from the perils tangled intercourse

Might breed for both. Indeed, it cannot be;

89

I grieve that so it is.

Gycia.

My Lord Asander,

Are these things so indeed?

Asan.

They are, my wife.

A rash and heedless promise binds me fast,

Which, in all frankness, I had never dreamt

Could thus demand fulfilment. Who is there

More loyal to the State than I? Who is there

Bound by such precious chains of love and faith

As is thy husband? If I said no word

Of this before, it was that I would fain

Forget this hateful compact. Sir, I beg you

Let me go hence, and when the old man's sickness

Is done, as Heaven will have it, take my word

That I will be a citizen of Cherson

Again, whate'er may come.

Zetho.

If the King dies,

Then art thou straightway King of Bosphorus,

90

Knowing the strength and weakness of our State,

And having bound to thee by closest friendship

Our chiefest citizens. Nay, nay, I dare not

Relieve thee from the pledge.

Asan.

Thou hoary trickster,

Speakest thou thus to me?

Gycia (interposing). Great heavens! Asander,

Knowest thou what thou dost? (To Zetho) Pardon him, sir.

He is not himself, I think, but half distraught,

To bear himself thus madly.

Zetho.

Daughter, the State

Knows to protect itself from insolence

And arrogant pride like this, and it is certain

'Twas a wise caution led thy honoured father

To stipulate that such ungoverned passion

Should be cut off from those conspiring forces

From which combined came danger.

Asan.

Gycia,

Hearest thou this schemer? Dost thou know indeed

That I am prisoned here, while my loved father

Lies on the bed of death? Dost thou distrust me,

That thou dost speak no word?

Gycia.

My lord, I cannot.

The measure which my father's wisdom planned

For the safety of the State, I, a weak woman,

Am too infirm to judge. Thou didst not tell me,

Asking that I should fly with thee, the bonds

By which thy feet were fettered. Had I known

I never had consented. Had I gone,

Breaking the solemn ordinance of State,

I should have left with thee my former love,

And sailed back broken-hearted. That thou grievest

There is none knows as I, but oh, my love!

Though it be hard to bear, yet is grief lighter

Than broken vows, and blighted honour, and laws

92

Made to sustain the State, yet overset

By one man's will. Dearest, we cannot go—

Nor thou; the State forbids it. I will pray

Thy father may grow strong again, and sit

Here at our hearth a guest; but this is certain—

To Bosphorus we go not. And I pray you

Make to my lord, who fills my father's place,

What reparation thy ungoverned rage

And hasty tongue demand.

Asan.

Thou cold Greek woman!

Of this, then, 'twas they warned me—a smooth tongue

And a cold heart; a brain by logic ruled,

And not at all by love. Thou hast no pity,

For pity shapes not into syllogisms;

Nor can affection ape philosophy,

Nor natural love put on the formal robe

Of cold too-balanced State-craft. Hear me, old man,

And thou too, wife. 'Twere better, ay, far better,

93

That I should get me gone, and my wife with me,

Than be pent here unwilling; but were it better

Or were it worse, be sure I will not stay

When duty calls me hence. Wife, wilt thou come?

Gycia. My lord, I cannot.

Asan.

Then, I go alone.

Zetho. Nay, thou shalt not. Ho there! arrest the Prince.

Asan. Unhand me. At your peril.

Gycia.

Oh, my husband!

[Weeps.

Ire. What! am I mad, or does some devilish power

Possess me heart and soul? I once loved Gycia;

I love Asander with o'ermastering love,

And yet these frequent rumours of dissensions

94

Marring the smooth course of their wedded life

Bring me a swift, fierce joy. If aught befell

To separate those lovers, then might Fate

And Chance open for me the golden doors

That lead to Love's own shrine; and yet I know not

If any power might melt to mutual love

That too-cold heart. But still, no other chance

Is left but this alone: if I should force

Those loving souls apart, then 'twere my turn.

Am I a monster, then, to will this wrong?

Nay, but a lovesick woman only, willing

To dare all for her passion. Though I loathe

Those crooked ways, yet love, despite myself,

Drives me relentless onward.

Enter Gycia.

Dearest lady,

Why art thou thus cast down? Some lovers' quarrel,

95

To be interred with kisses?

Gycia.

Nay, Irene,

This is no lovers' quarrel.

Ire.

Tell me, Gycia,

What was the cause?

Gycia.

The King of Bosphorus

Is ailing, and desires to see his son,

Who fain would go to him.

Ire.

And thou refusedst

To let thy lover go?

Gycia.

Nay, 'twas not so;

But politic reasons of the State forbad

The Prince's absence.

Ire.

Well, whate'er the cause,

The old man fain would see his son, and thou

Deniedst.

Gycia.

I denied him what the State

Denied him, and no more.

Ire.

The State denied him!

What does it profit thee to be the daughter

Of Lamachus, if thou art fettered thus

In each wish of thy heart? If it were I,

And he my love, I would break all bonds that came

Between me and my love's desire.

Gycia.

Irene,

Thou know'st not what thou say'st.

Ire.

It may be so;

I do not love by halves.

Gycia.

I do not need

That thou shouldst tutor me, who am so blest

In love's requital. I have nought to learn

From thee, who bearest unrequited love

For one thou wilt not name.

Ire.

Wouldst thou that I

Should name him? Nay, it were best not, believe me,

For me and thee.

Gycia.

Why, what were it to me,

Thou luckless woman?

Ire.

What were it to thee?

More than thou knowest, much.

Gycia.

And therefore 'tis

That thou dost dare to tutor me to deal

With the man I love, my husband.

Ire.

Gycia,

Love is a tyrannous power, and brooks no rival

Beside his throne. Dost thou, then, love indeed,

Who art so filled with duty?

Gycia.

Do I love?

Ay, from the depths of my enamoured heart!

I am all his own to make or break at will.

Only my duty to the State my mother

And the thrice-blessèd memory of my sire

Forbids that I should sink my soul in his,

Or, loving, grow unworthy. But, indeed,

98

Thou pleadest his cause as if thyself did love him.

Ire. As if I loved!—as if!

Gycia.

Indeed, 'tis well

Thou didst not, were he free, for he, it seems,

Has known of thee, and speaks not kindly words.

I know not wherefore.

Ire.

Did he speak of me?

Gycia. Ay, that he did.

Ire.

And what said he?

Gycia.

I think

'Twere best thou didst not know.

Ire.

Tell me, I prithee;

I can bear to hear.

Gycia.

'Twas but a hasty word,

And best forgotten.

Ire.

But I prithee tell me,

What said he?

Gycia.

That 'twere best I were alone

99

Than commercing with thee, since thou wert not

My fit companion.

Ire.

Said he that, the coward?

Gycia. I am his wife, Irene.

Ire.

What care I?

I have loved this man too well, before he saw thee.

There, thou hast now my secret. I have loved him,

And he loved me, and left me, and betrayed me.

Was it for him to brand me with this stain?

Unfit for thy companion! If I be,

Whose fault is that but his, who found me pure

And left me what I am?

Gycia.

What! dost thou dare

Malign my husband thus? I have known his life

From his own lips, and heard no word of thee.

Ire. He did confess he knew me.

Gycia.

Ay, indeed,

Not that he did thee wrong.

Ire.

My Lady Gycia,

Did ever man confess he wronged a woman?

If thou believe not me, who am indeed

Disgraced, and by his fault, thou once didst love

My brother Theodorus—send for him.

He is without, and waits me. Ask of him,

Who has long known my secret.

Gycia.

I will ask him.

Thou wretched woman, since thou art polluted,

Whate'er my love may be, go from my sight,

And send thy brother. Then betake thyself

To a close prison in the haunted Tower,

Till I shall free thee. Out of my sight, I say,

Thou wanton!

[Exit Irene.

What have I done, how have I sinned, that Heaven

Tortures me thus? How can I doubt this creature

Speaks something of the truth? Did he not say

At first he never knew that wanton's name?

101

Did he not afterwards betray such knowledge

Of her and of her life as showed the lie

His former words concealed? And yet how doubt

My dear, who by two years of wedded love

Has knit my soul to his? I know how lightly

The world holds manly virtue, but I hold

The laws of honour are not made to bind

Half of the race alone, leaving men licensed

To break them when they will; but dread decrees

Binding on all our kind. But oh, my love,

I will not doubt thee, till conviction bring

Proofs that I dare not doubt!

Theo.

My Lady Gycia,

I come at thy command.

Gycia.

Good Theodorus,

Thou lovedst me once, I think?

Theo.

I loved thee once!

Oh, heaven!

Gycia.

I am in great perplexity

And sorrow, and I call upon thy friendship

To succour me, by frank and free confession

Of all thou knowest.

Theo.

I can refuse thee nothing,

Only I beg that thou wilt ask me nought

That answered may give pain.

Gycia.

Nay, it is best

That I know all. I could not bear to live

In ignorance, and yet I fear to grieve thee

By what I ask. Thy sister late has left me——

Theo. Ask not of her, I pray; I cannot answer.

Gycia. Nay, by thy love I ask it. Answer me.

Theo. Have me excused, I pray.

That answered may give pain.

Gycia.

Then, I am answered.

My husband, she affirms, betrayed her honour

103

In Bosphorus, and now denies the crime.

Thou knowest it true.

Theo.

Alas! I cannot doubt it.

I have known all for years.

Gycia.

Ye saints of heaven!

Is there no shame or purity in men,

Nor room for trust in them? I am a wife

Who thought she did possess her husband wholly,

Virgin with virgin. I have thought I knew

His inmost heart, and found it innocent;

And yet while thus I held him, while I lay

Upon his bosom, all these happy hours

The venom of a shameful secret lurked

Within his breast. Oh, monster of deceit,

Thou never lovedst as I! That I should give

The untouched treasure of my virgin heart

For some foul embers of a burnt-out love,

And lavish on the waste a wanton left

104

My heart, my soul, my life! Oh, it is cruel!

I will never see him more, nor hear his voice,

But die unloved and friendless.

[Weeps.

Theo. (kneeling at her feet). Dearest Gycia,

Thou canst not want a brother, friend, and lover

While I am living. Oh, my love, my dear,

Whom I have loved from childhood, put away

This hateful marriage, free thee from the bonds

Of this polluted wedlock, and make happy

One who will love thee always!

Gycia.

Rise, Theodorus.

I have no love to give. I am a wife.

Such words dishonour me.

Theo.

Forgive me, Gycia.

I know how pure thy soul, and would not have thee

Aught other than thou art.

Gycia.

I do forgive thee.

'Twas love confused thy reason; but be brave.

Set a guard on thy acts, thy words, thy thoughts.

'Tis an unhappy world!

Lys.

Most noble lady,

Forgive me if at an unfitting time,

Amid the soft devoirs of gallantry,

I thus intrude unwilling; but I seek

The Prince Asander.

Gycia.

I have nought to hide

My husband might not know.

Lys.

Then, thou art, doubtless,

His wife, the Lady Gycia. Good my lady,

With such a presence to become a crown,

We would you were at Bosphorus.

Gycia.

'Tis clear

Thou art a stranger here, or thou wouldst know

106

That never would I leave my native city

To win the crown of Rome.

Lys.

Madam, 'tis pity.

Gycia. Sir, this is courtly talk. You came to see

My husband; I will order that they send him

At once to you.

Lys. That was indeed good fortune brought me hither

When her lover knelt to her. I do not wonder

That kneel he should, for she is beautiful

As Helen's self. There comes some difference

Between her and Asander, and 'twere strange

If I might not so work on't as to widen

The breach good fortune sends me, and to bind,

Through that which I have seen, the boy her husband

To execute my will.

Asan.

Lysimachus,

I am rejoiced to see thee.

Lys.

Good my lord,

How goes the world with thee? Thou art in mien

Graver than thou wast once.

Asan.

I am ill at ease!

I am ill at ease! How does the King my father?

Lys. Alas! sir, he is ailing, and I fear

Will never mend.

Asan.

Is he in present danger?

Lys. Ay, that he is. A month or less from this

May see the end.

Asan.

Keeps he his bed as yet?

Lys. Nay, not yet, when I left him; but his mind

Turns always to his absent son with longing,

And sometimes, as it were 'twixt sleep and waking

108

I hear him say, "Asander, oh, my son!

Shall I not see thee more?"

Asan.

Oh, my dear father!

And dost thou love me thus, who have forgot thee

These two long years? Belovèd, lonely life!

Belovèd failing eyes! Lysimachus,

I must go hence, and yet my honour binds me.

O God, which shall I choose? They do forbid me—

The ruler of this place and that good woman

Who is my wife, but holds their cursèd State

More than my love—to go.

Lys.

My prince, I come

To find a way by which thou mayst go free

From that which binds thee fast. This festival

To the dead Lamachus will give the occasion

To set thee free. If thou dost doubt to break

Thy word, yet doth a stronger, straiter chain

Bind thee—thy oath. Thou hast not forgot thy oath

109

To Bosphorus?

Asan.

Nay, I forget it not.

But what is it thou wouldst of me?

Lys.

Asander,

The night which ends the festival shall see us

Masters of Cherson.

Asan.

Nay, but 'twere dishonour

To set upon a friendly State from ambush—

'Twere murder, and not battle.

Lys.

Art thou false

To thy own land and to thy dying father?

Asan. That I am not; but never could I bear

To play the midnight thief, and massacre

Without announcement of legitimate war

Whom daily I have known. My wife I love

With all the love of my soul. If she seem cold

When any word is spoken which may touch

The safety of the State, think you she would love

110

The husband who destroyed it? All my heart

Is in her keeping.

Lys.

It is well indeed

To have such faith. Doubtless the Lady Gycia

Returns this pure affection.

Asan.

I would doubt

The saints in heaven sooner than her truth,

Which if I doubted, then the skies might fall,

The bounds of right and wrong might be removed,

The perjurer show truthful, and the wanton

Chaste as the virgin, and the cold, pure saint

More foolish than the prodigal who eats

The husks of sense—it were all one to me;

I could not trust in virtue.

Lys.

Thou art changed

Since when thy ship set sail from Bosphorus;

Thou didst not always think with such fond thought

As now thou dost. Say, didst thou find thy bride

111

Heart-whole as thou didst wish? Had she no lover

Ere yet thou camest?

Asan.

Nay, nay; I found my wife

Virgin in heart and soul.

Lys.

My Lord Asander,

Art thou too credulous here? What if I saw her

On that same spot, not half an hour ago,

In tears, and kneeling at her feet a gallant

Noble and comely as a morn in June,

Who bade her break, with passionate words of love,

Her hateful marriage vows, and make him blest

Who must for ever love?

Asan.

Thou sawest my wife

Gycia, my pearl of women, my life, my treasure?

Nay, nay, 'tis some sick dream! Thou art mistaken.

Who knelt to her?

Lys.

She called him Theodorus.

Asan. Irene's brother! Who was it who said

112

He loved her without hope? Lysimachus,

What is it that thou sawest? Come, 'tis a jest!

Kneeling to Gycia, praying her to fly!

Nay, nay, what folly is this?

Lys.

My lord, I swear

It is no jest indeed, but solemn earnest.

I saw him kneel to her; I heard the passion

Burn through his voice.

Asan.

And she? What did my lady?

She did repulse him sternly?

Lys.

Nay, indeed,

She wept; was greatly moved, and whispered to him,

"I am a wife."

Asan.

Peace, peace! I will not hear

Another word. How little do they know thee,

My white, pure dove! My Lord Lysimachus,

Some glamour has misled thee.

Lys.

Well, my lord,

113

I should rejoice to think it, but I cannot

Deny my eyes and ears. Is not this noble

The brother of the lady who was once

At Bosphorus at Court, and now attends

The Lady Gycia?

Asan.

Ay, indeed he is.

Lys. Well, she is near at hand; if thy belief

Inclines not to my tale—which yet is true—

Couldst thou not ask of her if ere your marriage

Her brother was enamoured of your wife,

And she of him?

Asan.

That might I do indeed.

But, sooth to say, I would not speak again

With her you name; and it may be indeed,

Since well I know her, that the Lady Gycia,

Who is angered with her for what cause I know not,

Might well resent the converse.

Lys.

Prince Asander,

114

There is no man so blind as he who closes

His eyes to the light and will not have it shine,

As thou dost now.

Asan.

Then will I see this lady,

Though knowing it is vain.

Lys.

I do not know

What he will hear, but this at least I know:

That woman loves him, and will lie to sow

Dissension 'twixt these lovers—which accomplished,

The rest is easy, and I hold this Cherson

In the hollow of my hand. Ha! a good thought.

I will send a message to the Lady Gycia

Which shall ensure't. If she mislikes her friend,

It is odds of ten to one some jealous humour

Has caused it, or may grow of it.

[Writes.

"Dear lady,

Thou art wronged; the Prince Asander presently

Is with Irene alone. Seek them, and wring

115

Confession of their fault."

[Summons a Messenger.

Ho there! convey

These to the Lady Gycia, but stay not

To tell her whence they come.

Mess.

I go, my lord.

Ire. To think that once I loved that haughty woman!

Ah, that was long ago, before love came

To tear our lives asunder. Though her power

Can pen me here a prisoner, yet I know

That I have pierced her heart. Oh, it is sweet

To be revenged, and know that vengeance brings

Victory in its train! If I had power

To make Asander jealous of this wonder,

Then all were easy. But I know no means

116

Whereby from this strait prison I might sow

Suspicion of her who has never given

A shadow of cause.

Attendant.

The Lord Asander comes.

Asan. Lady, I grieve that thou art in this place,

And fain would set thee free. Tell me what cause

Has brought thee hither.

Ire.

Ask me not, my lord;

I cannot tell thee.

Asan.

Nay, but know I must,

To plead thy cause.

Ire.

'Twas too great love of thee,

The love which thou didst spurn, that brought me here.

Asan. But how should that be so?

Ire.

The Lady Gycia,

Holding thee to thy promise that thou wouldst not

117

Go hence—no, not to close thy father's eyes—

Took umbrage that I spoke with scant respect

Of such unreasoning and unnatural bond

As that which she approves.

Asan.

Then am I grateful

For thy good-will, and grieve that it should bring thee

To pine a prisoner here, and will essay

What reason can to free thee.

Ire.

Thanks, my lord,

I would that thou wert free. I knew the King,

And did receive much fatherly affection

From that most reverend man. I grieve to hear

That he lies sick, and would rejoice to tend him

As if I were a daughter.

Asan.

Gentle lady,

No other voice of sympathy than thine

Have I yet heard in Cherson, and I thank thee

For thy good-will.

Ire.

'Tis always thine, my lord,

And more, though I should end my wretched days

In prison for thy sake.

Asan.

I thank thee, lady,

And fain would ask of thee a greater kindness:

I would that thou wouldst tell me of thy brother.

Ire. My brother Theodorus? What of him?

Asan. This only. Did he, ere I knew my wife,

Bear towards her a great though innocent love?

Ire. A great though innocent love? Ay, a great love,

For certain. Spoke she not of it to thee?

Asan. No word!

Ire.

Ah! yet, maybe, 'twas innocent—Nay,

I believe it, though she spoke not of it,

And 'tis the wont of wives to laugh and boast

Of innocent conquests.

Asan.

Nay, she spoke no word.

Ire. And did no other of thy friends at Cherson

119

Tell thee? Why, 'twas the talk of all the city

How close they grew together, till thy coming

And the necessities of Cherson turned

Her eyes from him to thee.

Asan.

And does he still

Bear love for her?

Ire.

And does he still bear love?

Ay, passionate love. The heart which truly loves

Puts not its love aside for ends of State,

Or marriage bonds, or what the dullard law

Suffers or does not suffer, but grows stronger

For that which seeks to thwart it.

Asan.

And did she

My wife return this love?

Ire.

Ay, so 'twas said.

Ask me no more, I pray!

Asan.

Nay, by the love

Thou bearest to me, speak!

Gycia.

My Lord Asander,

What dost thou with this woman thus alone?

Asan. 'Twere best thou didst not ask.

Gycia.

I have a right

I will be answered. First, thou didst deny

Thou knewest aught of her; then said her nature

Was such I might not call her friend, or live

With her within four walls; and now, her fault—

Which she herself proclaimed—penning her here

In a close prison, thou my husband comest

To comfort her, 'twould seem—to travel o'er

Again the old foul paths and secretly

To gloat on the old passion.

Asan.

Nay, I came

121

Not for this cause, but one which I will tell thee.

I came to question of thy former love.

Gycia. To question her of me?

Asan.

To know the cause

That made my wife, scarce one short hour ago,

Within my home, when hardly I had left her,

Receive alone a lover kneeling to her

With words of passionate love, and whisper to him,

"I am a wife."

Gycia.

Hast thou no shame, Asander,

To speak such words to me before this woman,

Who knows her brother's life?

Ire.

Nay, prithee, madam,

Appeal not to me thus; I could say much

On which I would keep silence.

Gycia.

Thou base woman,

And thou poor dupe or most perfidious man,

It were to honour ye to make defence

122

Against a wanton and her paramour;

But thee, Asander, never will I take

To my heart again, till thou hast put from thee

This lying accusation, and dost ask

Pardon that thou hast dared with this base wretch

To impugn my honour.

Asan.

Thou hast said no word

Of answer to my charge; thy bold defiance

Argues thy guilt.

Gycia.

My guilt? And canst thou dare

To say this thing to me? I will speak no word;

Denial were disgrace. Sir, I will have you

Leave this place quickly.

Asan.

Madam, I obey you.

Gycia. And I too go.

Ire.

I hold these hapless fools

In the hollow of my hand.

Lys. My Lord Asander, thou hast not forgot

Thy oath which thou didst swear ere first you left

Our Bosphorus, that, come what fate should come,

Thou wouldst not forget her. Now, as Fate would have it,

These gentlemen and I, hearing report

Of the grand festival which now approaches,

Have ta'en such measures as may make our city

Mistress of this her rival. Day by day

127

Ships laden deep with merchandise cast anchor

By Lamachus's palace, and unload

At dead of night their tale of armèd men,

And by to-morrow night, which is the eve

Of the feast, five hundred men-at-arms or more

Will there lie hid. These, when the festival

Has spent itself, and the drowsed citizens,

Heavy with meat and wine, are fast asleep,

Will issue forth at midnight and will seize

The guardians of the gates, and throw them open

To an o'erwhelmmg force which fills the ships

Which lie within the harbour. For the rest,

Cherson is ours, thou free to go or stay,

King if thou wilt; but this, my lord, know well—

If thou hast even no reverence for thy oath,

No power on earth can free thee from thy bonds

Or speed thee hence, if still this cursèd State

Keeps its free power. Therefore, look well to it.

Asan. I cannot do this thing. I am no thief

Or midnight murderer, but a prince and soldier.

Place me in open battle, and I care not

For bloodshed; but this murderous intrigue,

I will have none o't.

Lys.

Nay, my lord, in sooth,

Why think of bloodshed? If our scheme go right

(And nought can mar it now), what need of blood?

These smooth knaves, though they fight behind their walls

With cunning enginery, yet when they see

Our army in their streets, will straight grow prudent

And hug discretion. But, indeed, my lord,

We have gone too far to pause, and if thou like not

Our scheme, which makes for thee and for our State,

We cannot risk that thou denounce our plan,

And therefore, if thou wilt not join with us,

The safety of ourselves and of the State

129

Holds thee a prisoner pent in durance vile

Till victory is ours, and thou mayst take

The fruit of others' daring, while thy wife

Deserts her doubting and dishonoured lord

For one who dares to act and play his part

As a man should.

Asan. (after hesitation). I do not hold with you,

That a man's oath can bind him to his God

To do what else were wrong. Yet, since you swear

Your purpose is not bloodshed, and my will

Is impotent to stay your choice, and chiefly

Because I am cast down and sick at heart,

And without any trust in God or man,

I do consent to your conspiracy,

Loving it not.

Lys.

There spoke my lord the Prince.

We will succeed or die.

Asan.

I would sooner die.

Ire. Ah me! The heaviness of prisoned days!

Heigho! 'Tis weary work in prison here.

What though I know no loss but liberty,

Have everything at will—food, service, all

That I should have, being free—yet doth constraint

Poison life at its spring; and if I thought

This woman's jealous humour would endure,

I would sooner be a hireling set to tend

The kine upon the plains, in heat or cold,

131

Chilled through by the sharp east, scorched by the sun,

So only I might wander as I would

At my own will, than weary to be free

From this luxurious cell. Hark!

[The tramp of armed men is heard.

What was that sound?

I could swear I heard the measured tramp of men

And ring of mail, yet is it but illusion.

Last night I thought I heard it as I lay

Awake at dead of night. Mere fantasy

Born of long solitude, for here there are

No soldiers nor mailed feet.

[Again heard.

Hark! once again.

Nay, I must curb these fancies.

Child.

Gentle lady.

Ire. Speak, little one. Come hither.

Child.

Gentle lady,

My father, who is Warder of this tower,

Bade me come hither and ask thee if thou wouldst

That I should hold thy distaff, or might render

Some other service.

Ire.

Ay, child; a good thought.

Bring me my spinning-wheel.

[Child brings it.

Ire. (spinning). The light is fading fast, but I would choose

This twilight, if thou wilt not be afraid

Of the darkness, little one.

Child.

Nay, that I am not,

With one so good as thou.

Ire.

Nay, child, it may be

I am not all thou think'st me.

Child.

But, dear lady,

Are not all noble ladies good?

Ire.

Not all,

133

Nor many, maybe.

Child.

To be sure they are not,

Else were they not imprisoned.

Ire.

Little one,

Not all who pine in prison are not good,

Nor innocent who go free.

Child.

The Lady Gycia,

Is she not good?

Ire.

It may be that she is.

'Tis a vile world, my child.

Child.

Nay, I am sure

The Lady Gycia is as white and pure

As are the angels. When my mother died

She did commend me to her, and she promised

To keep me always.

Ire.

But she sent me here.

Child. Ah! lady, then I fear thou art not good.

I am sorry for thee.

Ire.

So, my child, am I.

Child. Ah! lady, what is that? I am afraid.

What means that noise?

Ire.

What didst thou hear, my child?

Child. A tramp of armèd men and ring of mail.

Ire. Then, 'tis no fancy of my weary brain.

If it comes again I must inquire into it.

'Tis passing strange. Be not afraid, my child.

'Twas but the wind which echoed through the void

Of the vast storehouses below us. Come,

[Spinning.

Let us to spinning. Twirl and twirl and twirl;

'Tis a strange task.

Child.

Lady, I love it dearly.

My mother span, and I would sit by her

The livelong day.

Ire.

Didst ever hear the tale

Of the Fates and how they spin?

Child.

I do not think so.

Wilt tell me?

Ire.

There were three weird sisters once,

Clotho and Lachesis and Atropos,

Who spun the web of fate for each new life,

Sometimes, as I do now, a brighter thread

Woven with the dark, and sometimes black as night.

Until at last came Atropos and cut

The fine-worn life-thread thus.

Child.

And hast thou cut

Some life-thread now?

Ire.

My child, I am no Fate,

And yet I know not; but the spindle's head

Rolled hence to yonder corner. Let us seek it.

Hast found it?

Child.

Nay, there is so little light.

I think that it has fallen in the crevice

136

Beneath yon panel.

Ire.

Stoop and seek it, child.

Perchance the panel slides, and then, it may be,

We shall let in the light.

Child.

Ay, there it is;

We have it, we have found it.

Ire.

What have we found?

What have we found? Yes, little one, 'tis found!

Run away now—I fain would be alone—

And come back presently.

[Kisses Child, who goes.

These were the sounds

I heard and thought were fancy's. All is clear

As is the blaze of noon. The Prince Asander

Is traitor to the State, and will o'erwhelm it

When all the citizens are sunk in sleep

After to-morrow's feast. Well, what care I?

137

He is not for me, whether we call him King

Or Archon; and for these good men of Cherson,

What is their fate to me? If he succeed,

As now he must, since no one knows the secret,

'Twill only be a change of name—no more.

The King and Queen will hold a statelier Court

And live contented when the thing is done,

And that is all. For who will call it treason

When victory crowns the plot? But stay! a gleam

Of new-born hope. What, what if it should fail

As I could make it fail? What if this woman,

Full of fantastic reverence for the dead,

And nourished on her cold republican dream,

Should learn the treason ere 'twas done and mar it?

Would not Asander hate her for the failure?

And she him for the plot? I know her well.

I know her love for him, but well I know

She is so proud of her Athenian blood

138

And of this old republic, she would banish

Her love for less than this. Once separated,

The Prince safe over seas in Bosphorus,

His former love turned to injurious pride,

I might prevail! I would!

Re-enter Child.

Nay, little one,

We will spin no more to-day. I prithee go

And seek the Lady Gycia. Say to her,

By all the memory of our former love

I pray that she will come to me at once.

Lose not a moment.

[Exit Child.

Hark! the tramp again;

Again the ring of mail. I wonder much

If she shall hear it first, or first the eye

Shall slay her love within her.

Gycia.

Thou dost ask

My presence; wherefore is it?

Ire.

Gycia,

Thou dost not love me, yet would I requite

Thy wrong with kindness. That thy love was false

To thee, thou knowest, but it may be still

There is a deeper falsehood than to thee,

And thou shalt know it. Dost thou hear that sound?

[The tramp of men again heard.

What means it, think you?

Gycia.

Nay, I cannot tell.

'Tis like the tramp of armèd men.

Ire.

It is;

And who are they?

Gycia.

Young citizens of Cherson,

Maybe, rehearsing for to-morrow's pageant

140

And the procession.

Ire.

Stay, thou stubborn woman,

Canst bear to see, though the sight blight thy life?

Gycia. I know not what thou wouldst, but I can bear it.

Ire. Though it prove thy love a traitor?

Gycia.

That it will not!

Ire. Then, make no sound, but see what I will show thee.

Look now! Behold thy love!

Asan.

At stroke of midnight

To-morrow night be ready.

Soldiers.

Ay, my lord.

[Gycia tottering back. Irene slides back the panel, and Gycia sets her back against it, half fainting; Irene regarding her with triumph.

Gycia. Was that my husband? and those men around him

Soldiers of Bosphorus, to whom he gave

Some swift command? What means it all, ye saints?

What means it? This the husband of my love,

Upon whose breast I have lain night by night

For two sweet years—my husband whom my father

Loved as a son, whose every thought I knew,

Or deemed I did, lurking in ambush here

Upon the eve of our great festival,

Scheming some bloody treachery to take

Our Cherson in the toils? Oh, 'tis too much;

I cannot trust my senses! 'Twas a dream!

Ire. No dream, but dreadful truth!

Gycia.

Thou cruel woman

How have I harmed thee, thou shouldst hate me thus?

But 'twas no dream. Why was it else that he,

But for some hateful treachery, devised

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This festival? Why was it that he grew

So anxious to go hence and take me with him,

But that guilt made him coward, and he feared

To see his work? Oh, love for ever lost,

And with it faith gone out! what is't remains

But duty, though the path be rough and trod

By bruised and bleeding feet? Oh, what is it

Is left for me in life but death alone,

Which ends it?

Ire.

Gycia, duty bids thee banish

Thy love to his own State, and then disclose

The plot thou hast discovered. It may be

That thou mayst join him yet, and yet grow happy.

Gycia. Never! For duty treads another path

Than that thou knowest. I am my father's daughter.

It is not mine to pardon or condemn;

That is the State's alone. 'Tis for the State

To banish, not for me, and therefore surely

143

I must denounce these traitors to the Senate,

And leave the judgment theirs.

Ire. (kneeling).

Nay, nay, I pray thee,

Do not this thing! Thou dost not know how cruel

Is State-craft, or what cold and stony hearts

Freeze in their politic breasts.

Gycia.

Thou kneel'st to me

To spare my husband! Think'st thou I love him less

Than thou dost, wanton?

Ire.

Gycia, they will kill him.

Get him away to-night to Bosphorus.

Thou dost not know these men!

Gycia.

I know them not?

I who have lived in Cherson all my days,

And trust the State? Nay, I will get me hence,

And will denounce this treason to the Senate.

There lies my duty clear, and I will do it;

I fear not for the rest. The State is clement

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To vanquished foes, and doubtless will find means

To send them hence in safety. For myself

I know not what may come—a broken heart,

Maybe, and death to mend it. But for thee,

Thou shameless wanton, if thou breathe a sound

Or make a sign to them, thou diest to-night

With torture.

Ire.

Spare him! Do not this thing, Gycia!

[Exit Gycia.

O God, she is gone! he is lost! and I undone!

[Swoons.

Asan. I have just come from them, and they are ready,

But I am not. I pray you, let this be;

Send back these men to-night. I am oppressed

By such o'ermastering presages of ill

As baffle all resolve.

Lys.

My Lord Asander,

It is too late. Wouldst thou, then, break thy oath?

Wouldst thou live here a prisoner, nor behold

Thy father, though he die? Wouldst thou thy country

Should spurn thee as the traitor whose malignance

Blighted her hard-won gains? It is too late!

It is too late!

Asan.

I am grown infirm of will

As any dotard. I will go on now

So that thou dost no murder.

Lys.

Why was it

We came in such o'erwhelming force, but that

We sought to shed no blood?

Asan.

I will be ready,

Though with a heavy heart. To-morrow night

At stroke of twelve, when all the feast is done,

And all asleep, we issue from the palace,

Seize the guards at their posts, and open wide

The gates to the strong force which from the ships

At the same hour shall land. The citizens,

Heavy with wine, will wake to find their city

Our own beyond recall.

Lys.

Ay, that's the scheme,

And nought can mar it now. Good night, my lord.

Sleep well; there is much to do.

Asan.

Good night, my lords!

Lys. No bloodshed! Why, what fools love makes of men!

I have seen this very lad dash through the ranks

Of hostile spearmen, cut and hack and thrust

As in sheer sport. There will be blood shed, surely,

Unless these dogs have lost their knack of war

As he has; but we have them unprepared,

And shall prevail, and thou shalt be avenged

My father slain, and thou, my murdered brother,

Shalt be avenged! My lords, you know what work

Is given each to do. Be not too chary

Of your men's swords; let them strike sudden terror.

Slay all who do resist, or if they do not,

Yet slay them still. My lords, give you good night.

To-morrow at midnight, at the stroke of twelve—

At the stroke of twelve!

[Exeunt omnes.

Zet. Most worthy brethren, Senators of Cherson,

In great perplexity of mind and will

I summon ye to-night. The Lady Gycia,

Our Lamachus's daughter, sends request,

Urgent as 'twere of instant life and death,

That I should call ye here. What care can move

Such anxious thought in her, on this the eve

Of the high festival herself has founded,

I know not, but 'twould seem the very air

Is full of floating rumours, vague alarms,

Formless suspicions which elude the grasp,

Unspoken presages of coming ill

Which take no shape. For whence should danger come?

We are at peace with all. Our former foe

Is now our dearest friend; the Prince Asander,

Though of a hasty spirit and high temper,

Dwells in such close, concordant harmony

With his loved wife that he is wholly ours;

And yet though thus at peace, rumours of war

And darkling plots beset us. Is it not thus?

Have ye heard aught?

1st Sen. Zetho, 'tis true. Last night, a citizen

Sware he heard clang of arms and ring of mail

At midnight by the house of Lamachus!

2nd Sen. My freedman, coming home at grey of dawn,

Saw a strange ship unload her merchandise,

And one bale chanced to fall, and from it came

Groanings and drops of blood!

3rd Sen.

Two nights ago,

The ways being white with snow, I on the quay

Saw the thick-planted marks of armèd feet;

But, rising with the dawn, I found the place

Swept clean with care!

Zet.

Brethren, I know not what

These things portend.

Enter Gycia.

But see, she comes! Good daughter,

Why is thy cheek so pale?

Gycia.

This is the wont

Of women. Grief drives every drop of blood

Back to the breaking heart, which love calls forth

To mantle on the cheek. Sirs, I have come

On such an errand as might drive a woman

Stronger than I to madness; I have come

To tell you such a tale as well might fetter

My tongue and leave me speechless. Pity me

If I do somewhat wander in my talk!

'Tis scarce an hour ago, that in my house,

Drawing some secret panel in the wall,

I saw the long hall filled with armèd men

Of Bosphorus, and at their head—O Heaven,

I cannot say it!—at their head I saw

My husband, my Asander, my own love,

[Senators rise with strong emotion.

Who ordered them and bade them all stand ready

To-morrow night at midnight. What means this?

What else than that these traitorous bands shall slay

Our Cherson's liberties, and give to murder

Our unsuspecting people, whom the feast

Leaves unprepared for war? I pray you, sirs,

Lose not one moment. Call the citizens

To arms while yet 'tis time! Defeat this plot!

Do justice on these traitors! Save the city,

Though I am lost!

Zet.

Daughter, thy loyal love

To our dear city calls for grateful honour

From us who rule. In thy young veins the blood

Of patriot Lamachus flows to-day as strong

As once it did in his; nay, the warm tide

Which stirred the lips of bold Demosthenes

And all that dauntless band who of old time

Gave heart and life for Athens, still is thine.

In our Hellenic story, there is none

Who has done more than thou, who hast placed love,

Wedlock, and queenly rule, and all things dear

To a tender woman's heart, below the State—

A patriot before all. Is there no favour

A State preserved may grant thee?

Gycia.

Noble Zetho,

I ask but this. I know my husband's heart,

How true it was and loyal. He is led,

I swear, by evil counsels to this crime;

And maybe, though I seek not to excuse him,

It was the son's love for his dying sire,

Whom he should see no more, that scheming men

Have worked on to his ruin. Banish him

To his own city, though it break my heart,

But harm him not; and for those wretched men

Whose duty 'tis to obey, shed not their blood,

But let the vengeance of our city fall

Upon the guilty only.

Zet.

Brethren all,

Ye hear what 'tis she asks, and though to grant it

Is difficult indeed, yet her petition

Comes from the saviour of the State. I think

We well may grant her prayer. Though well I know

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How great the danger, yet do I believe

It may be done. Is it so, worthy brethren?

[Senators nod assent.

Daughter, thy prayer is granted.

Gycia.

Sirs, I thank you;

I love you for your mercy.

Zet.

For the rest,

I counsel that we do not rouse the city.

'Twere of no use to-night to set our arms,

Blunt with long peace and rusted with disuse,

Against these banded levies. By to-morrow—

And we are safe till then—we shall have time

To league together such o'erwhelming force

As may make bloodshed needless, vain their plot,

And mercy possible. Meantime, dear lady,

Breathe not a word of what thine eyes have seen,

But bear thyself as though thou hadst seen nothing,

And had no care excepting to do honour

159

To thy dead sire; and when the weary day

Tends to its close, school thou thy heavy heart,

And wear what mask of joy thou canst, and sit

Smiling beside thy lord at the high feast,

Where all will meet. See that his cup is filled

To the brim; drink healths to Bosphorus and Cherson.

Seem thou to drink thyself, having a goblet

Of such a colour as makes water blush

Rosy as wine. When all the strangers' eyes

Grow heavy, then, some half an hour or more

From midnight, rise as if to go to rest,

Bid all good night, and thank them for their presence.

Then, issuing from the banquet-hall, lock fast

The great doors after thee, and bring the key

To us, who here await thee. Thus shalt thou

Save this thy State, and him thy love, and all.

For we will, ere the fateful midnight comes,

Send such o'erwhelming forces to surround them

160

That they must needs surrender, and ere dawn

Shall be long leagues away. We will not shed

A drop of blood, my daughter.

Gycia.

Noble Zetho

I thank you and these worthy senators.

I knew you would be merciful. I thank you,

And will obey in all things.

Bardanes, 1st Sen.

She is gone;

I durst not speak before her. Dost thou know,

Good Zetho, how infirm for war our State

After long peace has grown? I doubt if all

The men whom we might arm before the hour

Are matched in numbers with those murderous hordes;

While in experience of arms, in training,

In everything that makes a soldier strong,

We are no match for them. Our paramount duty

Is to the State alone, not to these pirates

Who lie in wait to slay us; nor to one

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Who, woman-like, knows not our strength or weakness,

Nor cares, if only she might wring a promise

To spare her traitorous love. But we have arts

Which these barbarians know not, quenchless fires

Which in one moment can enwrap their stronghold

In one red ring of ruin. My counsel is,

That ere the hour of midnight comes we place

Around the palace walls on every side

Such store of fuel and oils and cunning drugs

As at one sign may leap a wall of fire

Impassable, and burn these hateful traitors

Like hornets in their nest.

Zetho.

Good brethren all,

Is this your will? Is it faith? Is it honour, think you,

To one who has given all, for us to break

Our solemn plighted word?

2nd Sen.

We will not break it;

We shed no drop of blood. The State demands it;

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The safety of the State doth override

All other claim. The safety of the State

Is more than all!

All the Senators, with uplifted arms. Ay, Zetho, more than all!

Zetho. Then, be it as you will. See, therefore, to it;

Take measures that your will be done, not mine.

Though I approve not, yet I may not set

My will against the universal voice.

Save us our Cherson. For the rest I care not,

Only I grieve to break our solemn promise

To Lamachus's child. Poor heart! poor heart!

Asan. Gycia, though we have passed from amity

And all our former love, yet would I pray you,

By our sweet years of wedded happiness,

Give ear to me a moment. It may be

That some great shock may come to set our lives

For evermore apart.

Gycia.

Ah yes, Asander—

For evermore apart!

Asan.

And I would fain,

If it must be, that thou shouldst know to-night

That never any woman on the earth

Held me one moment in the toils of love

Except my wife.

Gycia.

What! not Irene's self?

Asan. Never, I swear by Heaven. She was a woman

In whom a hopeless passion burnt the springs

Of maiden modesty. I never gave her

The solace of a smile.

Gycia.

Dost thou say this?

Is thy soul free from all offence with her,

If thou camest now to judgment?

Asan.

Ay, indeed,

Free as a child's.

Gycia.

Oh, my own love! my dear!

Ah no! too late, too late!

Asan.

I ask thee not

Counter assurance, since I know thy truth.

Gycia. Speakst thou of Theodorus? He loved me

Before I knew thee, but I loved no man

Before I met Asander. When he knelt

That day, it was in pity for my grief,

Thinking thee false, and all his buried love

Burst into passionate words, which on the instant

I as thy wife repelled.

Asan.

Oh, perfect woman!

[They embrace.

O God, it is too late! Come, let us go;

The guests are waiting for us. What can Fate

Devise to vanquish Love.

[Exeunt.

Ire. (at the window above). Great God! what is this?

We are doomed to die!

Good friends,

Know you my brother, the Lord Theodorus?

I have something urgent I would say to him.

I will write it down, and you shall give it him

When he comes forth from the banquet.

[Disappears.

Ire. (reappearing). Here it is. Give it him, I pray, when he comes forth.

'Tis a thing of life and death.

1st Lab.

So they all think,

Poor love-sick fools!

Ire.

See, here is gold for you—

'Tis all I have; but he will double it,

If you fail not.

1st Lab.

Lady, we shall be here,

We must be here. Fear not, we shall not miss him.

Zetho. I drink to him whose gracious memory

We celebrate to-day. In all our Cherson,

Which boasts descent from the Athenian race,

Who one time swayed the world, there was no man,

Nor ever had been, fired with deeper love

Of this our city, or more heartfelt pride

In our republican rule (Lysimachus sneers), which free-born men

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Prize more than life. I do not seek to bind

Those who, long nurtured under kingly rule,

Give to the Man the love we bear the State;

But never shall the name of King be heard

In this our Cherson.

Lys.

Archon, 'twere unwise

To risk long prophecies.

Bard.

Be silent, sir,

If you would not offend.

Zetho.

I bid you all

Drink to the memory of Lamachus

And weal to our Republic.

Lys.

Shall we drink

Its memory, for it has not long to live,

If it be still alive?

Bard.

It will outlive thee.

Thou hast not long to live.

Lys.

Longer than thou,

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If swords be sharp.

Zetho.

I pray you, gentlemen,

Bandy not angry words.

Gycia.

My Lord Asander,

Thy cup is empty. Shall I fill it for thee?

Thou lovedst Lamachus?

Asan.

Ay, that I did;

And I love thee. But I have drunk enough.

I must keep cool to-night.

Gycia.

Nay; see, I fill

My glass to drink with thee.

Asan.

Well, well, I drink,

But not to the Republic.

Gycia.

Ah! my lord,

There is a gulf still yawns 'twixt thee and me

Which not the rapture of recovered love

Can ever wholly bridge. To my dead father

I drink, and the Republic!

Lys.

Which is dead.

Bard. Nay, sir, but living, and shall live when thou

Liest rotting with thy schemes.

Meg.

My Lord Asander,

A messenger from Bosphorus, just landed,

Has bid me give thee this.

Asan. (reading) "My Lord, the King

Is dead, asking for thee." Oh, wretched day!

Had I but gone to him, and left this place

Of sorrow ere he died!

Gycia.

My love, my dear!

Thou wilt go hence too late. I would indeed

The law had let thee go. Sorrow like this

Draws parted lives in one, and knits anew

The rents which time has made.

Lys.

The King is dead!

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Ay, then long live the King of Bosphorus!

And more ere long!

Bard.

Think you that he will live

To wear his crown?

Zetho.

Brethren, the hour is late,

And draws to midnight, and 'tis time that all

Should rest for whom rest is. (To Bardanes aside) We must consider

What change of policy this weighty change

Which makes Asander King may work in us.

Bard. (aside). Nay, nay, no change! He is a murderer still,

And shall be punished were he thrice a king.

Asan. Good night to all. And thou, good Megacles,

Thou wert my father's servant, take thy rest.

Go hence with these.

Meg.

I have no heart to marshal

These dignitaries forth. My King is dead;

181

I am growing old and spent.

Zetho.

Daughter, remember

Thy duty to the State.

Gycia.

I will, good Zetho.

I am my father's daughter. Gentle Sirs

And Ladies all, good night.

Asan.

Dearest of women,

How well this fair head will become a crown!

I know not how it is, but now this blow

Has fallen, it does not move me as I thought.

I am as those who come in tottering age

Even to life's verge, whom loss of friend or child

Touches not deeply, since the dead they love

Precede them but a stage upon the road

Which they shall tread to-morrow. Yet am I

182

Young, and thou too, my Gycia; we should walk

The path of life together many years,

But that some strange foreboding troubles me.

For oh, my dear! now that the sun of love

Beams on our days again, my worthless life

Grows precious, and I tremble like a coward

At dangers I despised. Tell me, my Gycia,

Though I am true in love, wouldst thou forgive me

If I were false or seemed false to thy State?

Hast thou no word for me? May I not tell thee

My secret, which so soon all men shall know,

And ask thy pardon for it?

Gycia.

Say on, Asander.

Asan. Know, then, that soldiers sent from Bosphorus

Have long time hid within our palace here—

Long time before I knew, or I had nipt

The treason in the bud; and in an hour

Or less from when we speak, they will go forth,

183

When all the citizens are wrapt in sleep

After the toilsome day, and seize the gate,

And open to the army which lies hid

On board the ships without. They will not shed

The blood of any, since the o'erwhelming force

Will make resistance vain. I never liked

The plot, I swear to thee; but, all being done,

And I a subject, dared not disavow

That which was done without me. But I have forced

A promise that no blood be spilt.

Gycia.

Asander,

I have known it all, and have discovered all

[Asander starts.

Thy secret to the Senate! But I knew not,

Save by the faith that is the twin with love,

That thou didst follow only in this plot,

And wert unwilling; and I do rejoice

Thy hands are free from blood. But oh, my love,

184

Break from these hateful men! Thou art now a King,

Thou canst command. Come, let us fly together;

There yet is time! I tell thee that this plot

Is doomed to ruin. Ere the morning dawns,

All but the guilty leaders will be sent

Prisoners to Bosphorus, and thou with them.

I have gained this on my knees; but for the guilty

The State has punishments.

Asan.

Gycia, thou wouldst not

That I should break my faith? 'Tis a King's part

To keep faith, though he die. But when they have seized

The city, then, using my kingly office,

I will undo the deed, and make alliance

With Cherson, and this done I will depart,

Taking my Queen with me.

Gycia.

Then must I go;

I cannot live without thee.

Asan.

Now to rest,

185

If not to sleep.

Gycia.

Good night, my love; farewell.

Asan. Nay, not farewell, my love!

Gycia.

Ah yes, farewell!

Farewell! farewell for ever!

[Exeunt.

Gycia. I hear no sound within; the lights are gone,

And all the hall is dark. These doors alone

Of all the many outlets of the palace

Remain unlocked. There is not now a moment

To lose ere midnight comes, and here I hold

The safety of our Cherson. Oh, my love!

I could not tell thee all, nor recompense

Thy faith in me, since duty held me fast—

186

My duty which should also prove thy safety,

For now the solemn promise of the State

Is pledged to hold thee harmless, and defeat

The shameful plot I knew was never thine,

Without one drop of bloodshed. All my path

Shows clear as noonday, and I save our city

And those who with thee err in innocence,

Why do I hesitate? Yet does some dark

And dreadful presage of impending ill

So haunt me that I know not how to face it.

I dare not do it. I must stay with him,

Or bring him forth with me.

[Ascends the steps, throws open the doors, and finds all darkness and silence.

Asander! husband!

It is thy wife who calls! Come forth, Asander!

[Listens.

Nay, there is no one there. I cannot stay;

187

This is mere folly. I must keep my word;

There's not a moment's time, or all is lost.

Which is the key?

[Closes the doors and locks them with a clang.

I must go forth alone

To the Senate-chamber. I have saved our Cherson

And my Asander!

[Totters down the steps and exit hurriedly.

Zetho. What is the hour?

Bardanes.

It wants five minutes only

To midnight. Think you she will come?

Zetho.

I know her.

She is the soul of honour, and would keep

188

Her word if 'twere her death.

Bard.

But would she keep it

If 'twere her lover's?

Zetho.

She thinks not that it is,

Nor should it be, indeed, were we but true

As I believe her.

Bard.

True! There is no truth

In keeping faith with murderers; they must perish

In the same net which they laid privily

Against a faithful city.

Zetho. Hail, noble daughter! Thou hast saved the State.

I knew thou wouldst not fail us.

Gycia.

See, good Zetho,

The proof that I have done my part to you.

There are the master keys of all the doors

189

Within the palace. When I closed the last,

A few brief minutes since, there was no sound

Nor light in hall or chamber; every court

Was silent as the grave.

Bard.

Ay, as the grave

It is, or will be soon.

Gycia.

What mean you, sir,

I pray you? I am but a timid woman,

Full of foreboding fears and dread of ill,

And such a doubt doth overspread my soul,

Hearing thy words, I think I shall go mad.

Nay, Zetho, he is safe; I have your promise

Thou wouldst not harm him. An o'erwhelming force,

Thou saidst, should so surround them that resistance

Were vain, and ere the dawn they should go hence

Without one drop of bloodshed.

Zetho.

Ay, my daughter,

Such was the promise.

Bard.

And it will be kept.

[Bell strikes midnight.

Hark, 'tis the hour! An overwhelming force

Surrounds them, but no drop of blood is shed.

All will go hence ere dawn.

Gycia.

Oh, cruel man,

And most perfidious world! Oh, my Asander!

To die thus and through me!

[A violent knocking is heard at the door.

Zetho. Whence cam'st thou, Theodorus?

Theo.

Straight, my lord,

191

From Gycia's palace.

Zetho.

Say, what didst thou there?

And what of horror has befallen thee

That makes thine eyes stare thus?

Theo.

Most noble Zetho,

When from the banquet scarce an hour ago

I passed, came one who offered me a letter

And bade me read. 'Twas from this woman here,

My sister, and it told of some great peril

By fire, which she, within the prison locked,

Expected with the night. Wherefore I sped

With one I trusted, and did set a ladder

Against her casement, calling her by name,

And bidding her descend. But no voice came,

And all was dark and silent as the grave;

And when I called again, the Prince Asander,

From an adjacent casement looking, cried,

"I had forgot thy sister. Take her hence;

192

She should go free!" And then, at her own casement

[Gycia revives and listens.

Appearing, he came forth, and in his arms

A woman's senseless form. As they descended

And now were in mid-air, there came the sound

Of the bell striking midnight, and forthwith

In a moment, like a serpent winged with fire,

There rose from wall to wall a sheet of flame,

Which in one instant mounted to the roof

With forked red tongues. Then every casement teemed

With strange armed men, who leapt into the flames

And perished. Those who, maimed and burnt, escaped,

Ere they could gain their feet, a little band

Of citizens, who sprang from out the night,

Slew as they lay. The Prince, who bore my sister

Unhurt to ground, stood for a moment mute.

Then, seeing all was lost, he with a groan

Stabbed himself where we stood. I fear his hurt

193

Is mortal, since in vain I tried to staunch

The rushing blood; then bade them on a litter

Carry him hither gently. Here he comes.

Gycia. Oh, my love, thou art hurt! Canst thou forgive me?

I thought to save thee and the rest. I knew not,

I did not know! Oh, God!

Asan.

I do believe thee.

The fates have led our feet by luckless ways

Which only lead to death. I loved but thee.

I wished thy State no wrong, but I am dying.

Farewell! my love, farewell!

Gycia.

Oh, my lost love!

Zetho. Poor souls! Mysterious are the ways of Heaven,

And these have suffered deeply in the fortune

194

That bound their lives together.

Bard.

That dead man

Would have betrayed our State, and thou dost pity!

So perish all the enemies of Cherson!

Gycia (rising). Nay, sir, be silent. 'Tis a coward's part

To vilify the dead. You, my Lord Zetho,

I had your promise that you would hurt none

Except the guilty only, and I thought

That to your word I might entrust my life

And one more dear than mine; but now it seems

That in some coward and unreasoning panic

This worthy Senator has moved his colleagues—

Since cruelty is close akin to fear—

To break your faith to me, and to confuse

The innocent and guilty, those who led

And those who followed, in one dreadful death!

I pray you pardon me if, being a woman,

Too rashly taking part in things of State,

195

I have known nought of State-craft or the wisdom

Which breaks a plighted word.

Zetho.

Daughter, I would

Our promise had been kept, and I had kept it

But that the safety of the State to some

Seemed to demand its breach.

Gycia.

Farewell, good Zetho,

And all who were my friends. I am going hence;

I can no longer stay. There lies my love.

There flames my father's house. I go far off,

A long, long journey. If you see me not

In life again, I humbly pray the State

May, if it think me worthy—for indeed

I have given it all—bury me, when I die,

Within the city, in a fair white tomb,

As did our Grecian forefathers of old

For him who saved the State; and, if it may be,

Lay my love by my side.

Zetho and Sens.

Daughter, we swear

That thou shalt have thy wish.

Gycia.

I thank you, sirs.

Then, I may go. Kiss me, good Theodorus:

I am no more a wife. I know thy love,

And thank thee for it. For that wretch whose lie

Has wrecked our life and love, I bless the gods

That I am childless, lest my daughter grew

As vile a thing as she; and yet I know not.

She loved him in some sort, poor wretch, poor wretch!

But now I must be going. 'Tis past midnight;

[Snatches dagger from Theodorus's side.

I must go hence. I have lost my life and love.

But I have saved the State.

Cits. The State is saved! Long may our Cherson flourish!

197

The State is saved! Long live our Lady Gycia,

Who saved the State!

Gycia (rising a little). Yes, I have saved the State!

Citizens (without). Long live the Lady Gycia!