SCENE I. Lamachus’ palace, Cherson.

GYCIA and IRENE.

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,
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 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, And that is very hell. I would die sooner Than breathe his name to thee. Farewell, dear lady! Thou canst not aid me.

[Exit IRENE.

Gycia. Hapless girl! Praise Heaven
That I am fancy-free!

Enter LAMACHUS.

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, 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, 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.

[Going.

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 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, 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 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.

SCENE II. Outside the palace of LAMACHUS.

MEGACLES and COURTIERS.

Meg. Well, my lords, and so this is the palace. A grand palace, forsooth, and a fine reception to match! Why, these people are worse than barbarians. They are worse than the sea, and that was inhospitable enough. The saints be praised that that is over, at any rate. Oh, the intolerable scent of pitch, and the tossing and the heaving! Heaven spare me such an ordeal again! I thought I should have died of the smells. And here, can it be? Is it possible that there is a distinct odour of pah! what? Oils, as I am a Christian, and close to the very palace of the Archon! What a detestable people! Some civet, good friends, some civet!

1st Court. Here it is, good Megacles. You did not hope, surely, to find republicans as sweet as those who live cleanly under a King? But here are some of their precious citizens at last.

Enter Citizens hurriedly.

1st Citizen. I pray you, forgive us, gentlemen. We thought the Prince would take the land at the other quay, and had prepared our welcome accordingly.

Meg. Who are these men?

1st Court. They are honourable citizens of Cherson.

Meg. Citizens! They will not do for me. The Count of the Palace should be here with the Grand Chamberlain to meet my Master.

1st Cit. Your Master? Oh! then you are a serving man, as it would seem. Well, my good man, when comes your Master?

Meg. Oh, the impertinent scoundrel! Do you know, sir, who I am?

1st Cit. Probably the Prince’s attendant, his lackey, or possibly his steward. I neither know nor care.

Meg. Oh, you barbarian! Where is the Count of the Palace, I say?

1st Cit. Now, citizen, cease this nonsense. We have not, thank Heaven, any such foolish effeminate functionary.

Meg. No Count of the Palace? Heavens! what a crew! Well, if there is none, where are your leading nobles? where the Respectable and Illustrious? You are certainly not Illustrious nor Respectable; you probably are not even Honourable, or if you are you don’t look it.

1st Cit. What, you wretched popinjay of a serving man! You dare address a Greek citizen in that way? Take that, and that! [Beats him.

1st Court. Draw, gentlemen! These are ruffians!

[They fight.

Enter ASANDER.

Asan. Put up your swords, gentlemen. Why, fellows, what is this? Is this your hospitality to your guests?

1st Cit. Nay, sir; but this servant of yours has been most insolent, and has abused and insulted our State and its manners. He told us that we were not men of honour; and some of us, sir, are young, and have hot blood, and, as Greek citizens of Cherson, will not bear insults.

Asan. Insolent upstarts, you are not worthy of our swords! Come, my Lord Megacles, heed them not. Here is their master.

Enter LAMACHUS and Senators.

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, 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, 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.

Meg. My Lord Asander, remember what is due to yourself and Bosphorus. Remember, when this merchant’s daughter comes, you must not treat her as an equal. Courtesy to a woman is all very well, but rank has greater claims still, especially when you have to deal with such people as these. Now, remember, you must make no obeisance at all; and if you advance to meet her more (Enter GYCIA, IRENE, MELISSA, and Ladies. IRENE, seeing ASANDER, faints, and is withdrawn, GYCIA supporting her. Confusion.) than one step, you are lost for ever. These are the truly important things.

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!

Re-enter GYCIA.

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, 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 Here 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, 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.

[Exeunt all but LAMACHUS and GYCIA.

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 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.

SCENE III. A street in Cherson.

MEGACLES; afterwards MELISSA.

Megacles. Well, it is time for the banquet. Somehow, this place improves on acquaintance, after all. Poor, of course, and rude to a degree. But truly the Lady Gycia is fair as fair, indeed, as if she was the Emperor’s daughter. She is a beautiful creature, truly. But give me that delightful lady-in-waiting of hers, the Lady Melissa. What grace! what rounded proportions! I like mature beauty. She is as like the late divine Empress as two peas, and I thought I dare say I was wrong, but I really thought I made an impression. Poor things! poor things! They can’t help themselves. We courtiers really ought to be very careful not to abuse our power. It is positive cruelty. The contest is too unequal. It makes one inclined sometimes to put on the manners of a clown, so as to give them a chance. Nay, nay, you might as well ask the Ethiopian to change his skin as a courtier his fine manners. By all the saints! here she comes in propria persona.

Enter the LADY MELISSA.

Mel. Heavens! it is the strange nobleman. I am sure I am all of a flutter.

Meg. (advancing with formal bows). My lady, I am enchanted (bows again; then takes several steps to the right, then to the left, and bows). What a wonderful good fortune! Ever since I had the honour to see you just now, I have only lived in the hope of seeing you again.

Mel. (curtsying). Oh, my lord, you great courtiers can find little to interest you in our poor little Court and its humble surroundings.

Meg. Madam, I beg! not a word! I was just thinking that you exactly resembled the late divine Empress.

Mel. Oh, my lord, forbear! The Empress! and I have never been out of Cherson! You flatter me, you flatter me, indeed. That is the way with all you courtiers from Constantinople. Now, if you had said that my Lady Gycia was beautiful

Meg. My dear lady, I do not admire her in the least. She has no manners, really nothing, at any rate, to attract a man of the great world; a mere undeveloped girl, with all the passion to come. No, no, my good lady, give me a woman who has lived. We courtiers know manners and breeding when we see them, and yours are simply perfect, not to say Imperial.

Mel. What a magnificent nature! Well, to say the truth, the Lady Gycia is not at all to my taste. It is a cold, insipid style of beauty, at the best; and she is as self-willed and as straitlaced as a lady abbess. I suppose she is well matched with the Prince Asander?

Meg. Well, he is a handsome lad enough, and virtuous, but weak, as youth always is, and pliable. Now, for myself, I am happy to say I am steadfast and firm as a rock.

Mel. Ah, my lord, if all women saw with my eyes, there would not be such a run after youth. Give me a mature man, who has seen the world and knows something of life and manners.

Meg. What an intelligent creature! Madam, your sentiments do you credit. I beg leave to lay at your feet the assurance of my entire devotion.

Mel. Oh, my lord, you are too good! Why, what a dear, condescending creature! the manners of a Grand Chamberlain and the features of an Apollo!

Meg. Permit me to enrol myself among the ranks of your humble slaves and admirers (kneels and kisses her hand). But hark! the music, and I must marshal the guests to the banquet. Permit me to marshal you.

[Exeunt with measured steps.

SCENE IV. The garden without the banqueting-room. Moonlight. The sea in the distance, with the harbour.

ASANDER and GYCIA descend the steps of the palace slowly together.
Music heard from within the hall.

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.

[Kisses her.

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 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!

[Exit GYCIA.

Enter IRENE unperceived.

Asan. Ah, sweetest, best of women! paragon Of all thy sex, since first thy ancestress Helen, the curse of cities and of men, 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; 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
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 That all return of honourable love Were hopeless, as if I should dare to raise My eyes to Caesar’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 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 Athene fused in one, Ever to throw her life and maiden shame As I do at thy feet.

[Kneels.

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, 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 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.

[Exit.

Enter THEODORUS unseen.

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;
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, confused 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, 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.

END OF ACT II.