SCENE I. Cherson, two years after. The palace of LAMACHUS.

ASANDER and GYCIA.

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 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 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
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, 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 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 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 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 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; Nor spare the wealth wherewith his bounty blest us To do fit honour to the illustrious dead.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II. The same.

MEGACLES, COURTIERS; afterwards ASANDER.

Meg. Well, my lords, two years have passed since we left our Bosphorus, and I see no sign of our returning there. If it were not for that delightful Lady Melissa, whose humble slave I am always (Courtiers laugh), I would give all I am worth to turn my back upon this scurvy city and its republican crew. But my Lord Asander is so devoted to his fair lady and, indeed, I can hardly wonder at it that there seems no hope of our seeing the old shores again. I thought he would have been off long ago.

1st Court. A model husband the Prince, a paragon of virtue.

2nd Court. Well, there is no great merit in being faithful to a rich and beautiful woman. I think I could be as steady as a rock under the like conditions.

3rd Court. Well, mind ye, it is not every man who could treat the very marked overtures of the fair Lady Irene as he did. And he had not seen his wife then, either. No; the man is a curious mixture, somewhat cold, and altogether constant, and that is not a bad combination to keep a man straight with the sex. Poor soul! do you remember how she pursued him at Bosphorus, and how she fainted away at the wedding? They say she is coming back speedily, in her right mind. She has been away ever since, no one knows where. That solemn brother of hers conveyed her away privily.

1st Court. I hate that fellow a canting hypocrite, a solemn impostor!

2nd Court. So say we all. But mark you, if the Lady Irene comes back, there will be mischief before long. What news from Bosphorus, my Lord Megacles?

Meg. I have heard a rumour, my lord, that his Majesty the King is ailing.

1st Court. Nay, is he? Then there may be a new King and a new Queen, and we shall leave this dog-hole and live at home like gentlemen once more.

3rd Court. Then would his sacred Majesty’s removal be a blessing in disguise.

2nd Court. Ay, indeed would it. Does the Prince know of it?

Meg. I have not told him aught, having, indeed, nothing certain to tell; but he soon will, if it be true. But here his Highness comes.

Enter ASANDER.

My Lord Asander, your Highness’s humble servant welcomes you with effusion.

[Bows low.

Asan. Well, my good Megacles, and you, my lords. There will be ample work for you all ere long. The Lady Gycia is projecting a great festival in memory of her father, and all that the wealth of Cherson can do to honour him will be done. There will be solemn processions, a banquet, and a people’s holiday. Dost thou not spy some good ceremonial work there, my good Megacles? Why, thou wilt be as happy as if thou wert at Byzantium itself, marshalling the processions, arranging the banquet, ushering in the guests in due precedence, the shipowner before the merchant, the merchant before the retailer. Why, what couldst thou want more, old Trusty? [Laughs.

Meg. Ah, my Lord Prince, your Highness is young. When you are as old as I am, you will not scoff at Ceremony. This is the pleasantest day that I have spent since your Highness’s wedding-day. I thank you greatly, and will do my best, your Highness.

Asan. That I am sure of, good Megacles. Good day, my lords, good day. [Exeunt MEGACLES and Courtiers.

Enter Messenger.

Mess. My Lord Asander, a messenger from Bosphorus has just landed, bringing this letter for your Highness.

Asan. Let me see it. (Reads) “Lysimachus to Asander sends greeting. Thy father is failing fast, and is always asking for his son. Thou art free, and must come to him before he dies. I have much to say to thee, having heard long since of a festival in memory of Lamachus to be held shortly. I will be with thee before then. Be ready to carry out the plan which I have formed for thy good, and will reveal to thee. Remember.”

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 throne,
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.

Enter GYCIA.

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.

Enter ZETHO and Senators.

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 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; 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, 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?

[Draws.

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 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, 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.

[Guards arrest ASANDER.

Asan. Unhand me. At your peril.

[Draws.

Gycia. Oh, my husband!

[Weeps.

SCENE III. A room in the palace.

IRENE; afterwards GYCIA.

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 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,
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?

[Laughs mockingly.

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-blessed memory of my sire Forbids that I should sink my soul in his, Or, loving, grow unworthy. But, indeed, 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
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?
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!

Enter THEODORUS.

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.

Gycia. Then, I am answered. My husband, she affirms, betrayed her honour 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 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!

Enter LYSIMACHUS unperceived.

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!

[THEODORUS kisses her hand and exit.

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 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.

[Exit GYCIA.

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.

Enter ASANDER.

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 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? Beloved, lonely life! Beloved 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 cursed 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 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 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 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 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?

[Laughs.

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, 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, 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.

[Exit ASANDER.

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
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.

SCENE IV. IRENE’S prison.

IRENE; afterwards ASANDER and GYCIA.

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 Whereby from this strait prison I might sow Suspicion of her who has never given A shadow of cause.

Attendant. The Lord Asander comes.

Enter ASANDER.

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 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 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!

Enter GYCIA unperceived.

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
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 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.

[Exit.

Gycia. And I too go.

[Exit.

Ire. I hold these hapless fools
In the hollow of my hand.

SCENE V. Outside the palace.

LYSIMACHUS and three Courtiers; afterwards ASANDER.

Lys. My lords, what have you to report? Have the men arrived?

1st Court. For a week past they have been arriving at the rate of fifty a day. The ships anchor in due course. At dead of night, when everything is still, the merchandise is landed and conveyed well disguised to the great storehouses of Lamachus’ palace, with good store of arms and provisions.

2nd Court. Yes, and by the day of the festival we shall have more than five hundred well-armed men within the walls, who, while the people are feasting, will bear down all opposing forces and open the gates to the larger body, who will lie concealed in the grain-ships in the harbour.

Lys. Does no one suspect, think you, as yet?

1st Court. Not a soul. The merchandise is landed at dead of night.

3rd Court. Does the Prince know?

Lys. Not yet, not a word. I can’t trust him with his blind love for his wife.

3rd Court. What if he will not be of us?

Lys. Then he shall be put under hatches at once for Bosphorus, and may take his wife with him if he pleases.

1st Court. But will he pardon the deed?

Lys. The lad is a good lad enough, but weak as water. The world always pardons successful enterprises. Besides, I am in great hopes that he has so quarrelled with the ruler of Cherson, and may be, moreover, so out of conceit with his wife, that we can do as we will with him.

2nd Court. But be prudent, my Lord Lysimachus, I beg, for we know not how far he is with us, and if he is against us now, it may take more than we know to keep our heads on our shoulders.

Lys. My lords, you shall not lose a drop of your blood. But here is my Lord Asander. He looks cast down enough, in all conscience.

Enter ASANDER.

Well, Prince, hast thou seen the lady?

Asan. Speak not to me of her, I pray. I must leave this accursed place at once and for ever, and must take my wife with me. Once in Bosphorus, I may know again the happiness which is denied me here. I will not stay here a day. Is there any ship from Bosphorus in harbour? Get me away to-night secretly, and the Lady Gycia with me.

Lys. My lord, there are many ships here from Bosphorus, but none empty or which can be spared now; but it wants but two days to the festival, and if thou wilt tarry until then, it may be we can so arrange that either thou mayst set sail for Bosphorus at your will or bring Bosphorus hither at will.

Asan. What do these words mean? You speak in riddles. I care not what becomes of me, but remember my honour, Lysimachus, my honour! If any scheme against the State of Cherson is in your mind, I will have none of it. I want nothing of these people, only to be allowed to turn my back upon them and their intrigues for ever, and to carry the wife whom I love far away from the air of chicane and base deceit which makes this Cherson a hell.

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 Ships laden deep with merchandise cast anchor By Lamachus’s palace, and unload At dead of night their tale of armed 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 cursed 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 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.