University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

A chamber in the Temple.
Enter Medon, followed by Abra.
MEDON.
My daughter not within the temple, sayst thou?
Abroad at such an hour? Sure not alone
She wander'd: tell me truly, did not Phocion
Or Ion bear her company? 'twas Ion—
Confess;—was it not he? I shall not chide,
Indeed I shall not.

ABRA.
She went forth alone;
But it is true that Ion just before
Had taken the same path.

MEDON.
It was to meet him.
I would they were return'd; the night is grown
Of an unusual blackness. Some one comes—
Look if it be my daughter.

Abra
looking out.
No; young Irus,
The little slave, whose pretty tale of grief
Agenor, with so gracious a respect,
This morning told us.

MEDON.
Let him come; he bears
Some message from his master.

Enter Irus.
Medon
to Irus.
Thou art pale;
Has any evil happened to Agenor?

IRUS.
No, my good lord, I do not come from him;
I bear to thee a scroll from one who now
Is number'd with the dead; an humble man,
Who was the last akin to me on earth,
But whom I never saw until he lay
Upon his deathbed; he had left these shores
Long before I was born, and no one knew
His place of exile;—on this mournful day
He landed, was plague-stricken, and expired.
My gentle master gave me leave to tend
His else unsolaced death-bed;—when he found
The clammy chilness of the grave steal on,
He call'd for parchment, and with trembling hand,
That seem'd to gather firmness from its task,
Wrote earnestly; conjured me take the scroll
Instant to thee; and died.

[Irus gives a scroll to Medon.
Medon
reading the scroll.
These are high tidings.
Abra! is not Clemanthe come? I long
To tell her all.

Enter Clemanthe.
MEDON.
Sit down, my pensive child.
Abra, this boy is faint, see him refresh'd
With food and wine before he quit the temple.

IRUS.
I have too long been absent from Agenor,
Who needs my slender help.

MEDON.
Nay, I will use
Thy master's firmness here, and use it so
As he would use it. Keep him prisoner, Abra,
Till he has done my bidding.
[Exeunt Abra and Irus.
Now, Clemanthe,
Though thou hast play'd the truant and the rebel,
I will not be severe in my award
By keeping from thee news of one to thee
Most dear—nay, do not blush—I say most dear.

CLEMANTHE.
It is of Ion;—no—I do not blush,
But tremble. O my father, what of Ion?

MEDON.
How often have we guess'd his lineage noble!
And now 'tis proved. The uncle of that youth
Was with another hired to murder him
A babe;—they tore him from his mother's breast,
And to a sea-girt summit, where a rock
O'erhung a chasm by the surge's force
Made terrible, rush'd with him. As the gods
In mercy order'd it, the foremost ruffian
Who bore no burden, pressing through the gloom
In the wild hurry of his guilty purpose,
Trod at the extreme verge upon a crag
Loosen'd by summer from its granite bed,
And suddenly fell with it;—with his fall
Sunk the base daring of the man who held
The infant; so he placed the unconscious babe
Upon the spot where it was found by me;
Watch'd till he saw the infant safe; then fled,
Fearful of question; and return'd to die.
That child is Ion; whom do'st guess his sire?
The first in Argos.

CLEMANTHE.
Dost thou mean Adrastus?
He cannot—must not—be that tyrant's son!

MEDON.
It is most certain. Nay, my thankless girl,
He hath no touch of his rash father's pride,
For Nature, from whose genial lap he smiled
Upon us first, hath moulded for her own
The suppliant of her bounty. I have read
His inmost spirit from that hour, and feel
No change will make him tyrant to the state,
Or traitor to his love;—thou art bless'd, Clemanthe—
Thus, let me bid thee joy.

CLEMANTHE.
Joy, sayst thou—joy!
Then I must speak—he seeks Adrastus' life;
And at this moment, while we talk, may stain
His soul with parricide.

MEDON.
Impossible!
Ion, the gentlest—

CLEMANTHE.
It is true, my father;
I saw the weapon gleaming in his vest;
I heard him call'd!

MEDON.
Shall I alarm the palace!

CLEMANTHE.
No; in the fierce confusion, he would fall
Before our tale could be his safeguard. Gods!
Is there no hope, no refuge?

MEDON.
Yes, if Heaven
Assist us. I bethink me of a passage
Which, fashion'd by a king in pious zeal,
That he might seek the altar of the god
In secret, from the temple's inmost shrine
Leads to the royal chamber. I have track'd it
In youth for pastime. Could I thread it now,
I yet might save him.

CLEMANTHE.
O make haste, my father;
Shall I attend thee?

MEDON.
No; thou wouldst impede
My steps;—thou art fainting; when I have lodged thee safe
In thy own chamber, I will light the torch
And instantly set forward.

CLEMANTHE.
Do not waste
An instant's space on me;—speed, speed, my father—
The fatal moments fly; I need no aid;—
Thou seest I am calm, quite calm.

MEDON.
The gods protect thee!

[Exeunt severally.