Part 7 (2/2)

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 ill.u.s.trious 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.

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