University of Virginia Library

GLAUCUS

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

• Glaucus, a Greek nobleman
• Arbaces, an Egyptian prince
• Calenus, a priest of Isis
• Apaecides, a neophyte priest of Isis, brother of Ione
• Clodius, a Roman, friend of Glaucus
• Sallust, a Roman gentleman
• Praetor, a governor of Pompeii
• Dudus, a Roman fop
• Lydon, a gladiator
• Burbo, a retired gladiator
• Saphax, a freedman of Glaucus
• Ione, a Greek lady
• Nydia, a flower girl
• Stratonice, wife of Burbo
• Gladiators, Lictors, Attendants, Freedmen, Slaves, Soldiers, etc.

SCENE: POMPEII. TIME: A.D. 79 AUGUST—FIRST YEAR OF THE REIGN OF TITUS

ACT I.

Scene: The part of Pompeii bordering on the Bay of Naples, laid out as a pleasure ground, with seats, etc., surrounded with palaces. The back of the stage crowded with gaily colored booths, etc., and thronged with buyers and sellers. Fishing boats, filled with fishermen, occasionally arrive at side of scene, well back, from which fishermen disembark with nets, fish, etc. Vesuvius, a highly cultivated mountain, covered with villas, gardens, etc., seen in the distance. [R. of C.] Hetairae gaily dressed in transparent costumes, mounted in chariots, conducted by slaves, drive across the stage, accompanied by throngs of young gentlemen who offer the Hetairae flowers, wreaths, presents, etc. The richly curtained litters of ladies of rank, borne and accompanied by slaves, occasionally cross the scene. Enter [L.2. and 3.E.] as from the games, Dudus, Burbo, Stratonice and a miscellaneous throng of soldiers, citizens, etc. Clodius and Sallust land from a boat, and advance.
Clod.
[To Burbo]
Are the games over?

Bur.
For today, my lord.
And you not there!

Clod.
State business called me hence,
As far as Baiae. Who was victor?

Stra.
Who?—
Shut up your mouth, you Burbo! The worst use
You make of it is to be talking thus,
Unless you are guzzling.

Bur.
Stratonice, now!
His lordship spoke to me—

Stra.
He knows you not;
Or he had better spoken to a parrot.
Why will you talk and talk, while no one listens?
Who, your lordship, who won the first prize?
Why, Lydon, Lydon ever.

Sal.
Lydon again:
Then I win half a talent.

Stra.
A mere boy;
But then he meets but pigmies. In my day,
When I turned hulking Burbo on his back,
Like a great tortoise, with my net's first cast;
And he screamed out for mercy, which for fun,
For sheer fun all the laughing people gave—
I wish they had not: he is such a care:
Then there were women in the bloody ring
That would have given this Lydon more to do
Than what you now call men,—call gladiators!
Fie! gladiators, without strength enough
To sweep my kitchen out. Take that, and that,
For all your gladiators!

[Cuffs Burbo]
Dud.
Gracious Venus!
Is that a matrimonial rite?

Sal.
Take warning.
It is not safe, my Dudus, as you see,
To wed a gladiator, he or she.

Clod.
You were in the arena, Stratonice,
Some years, I think?

Bur.
She was—

Stra.
[Putting her hand over Burbo's mouth]
Five years, my lord.

Dud.
Dear, dear!

Stra.
And vanquished only twice.

Dud.
The men
Of your day were polite.

Stra.
Polite! Young man,
Feel this right arm.

Bur.
[Interposing jealously]
Nay, nay—

Stra.
[Flinging him aside]
Out, double ass!
Polite! Feel this. [Bending and unbending her arm]


Dud.
[Retreating]
Gods! I would rather not,
As Burbo feels it.

Sal.
But, besides myself,
Who won on Lydon?

Dud.
Glaucus won enough
To build a temple.

Sal.
The sagacious Greek!

Stra.
There is a man for you! By Hercules!
When he was born a gentleman, the games
Lost a great fighter. Just the other day,
Out of mere sport, there in the fencing-school,
He took a foil, and drove this very Lydon
Around the ring, as if he were a cur.
Why Lydon panted like a winded horse;
But Glaucus did not draw one heavy breath
Through his bright, laughing lips. I'd love to kiss them.

Bur.
Nay Stratonice—

Stra.
Ass!

Dud.
The gods forbid
Poor Glaucus such a fortune!

Stra.
Look you here,
You gilded toga, you fine heap of clothes,
With no more man within them, than enough
To carry them about for show,—feel this! [Offers her arm]


Bur.
Nay, Stratonice, nay my dearest dove,
My little pidgy, widdgy! why, oh why
Are you forever flirting with that youth? [Pats her cheek]


Stra.
Flirting? you oaf!

Bur.
Yes, darling; that's the way
You flirt with me.

Sal.
[To Clodius]
Was it not strange, that freak
Of Glaucus, Stratonice told?

Clod.
Oh! no;
He is Achilles in his woman's garb.
Luxurious indolence has not quite quelled
The man within him. If he had a cause,
Great as himself, to which his heart was given,
There might arise a hero in a day
Degenerate as is ours.

Sal.
Well, Clodius,
You are the best of friends.

Clod.
How so?

Sal.
To make
A hero of that Attic fop.

Clod.
Wait, man,
Till some strong passion moves him—love or hate.

Sal.
When will that be?

Clod.
Who knows? There is a maid,
Of Greek descent too, fairest of the fair,
Rich, graceful, cultured, of a noble stock;
Heart free, as spotless as Diana's cheek,
In all ways fit for Glaucus: I would give
A half year's income, just to bring those two
Closely in contact; while I stood aloof,
And watched the issue.

Sal.
Grand experiment!
Who is this paragon, before whose feet
You'd sacrifice poor Glaucus?

Clod.
Guess you not?
That damsel of Neapolis, Ione—
Arbaces' ward. You must have seen the girl,
Despite the jealous care with which her guardian
Secludes her from the public, all he can.
She's now of age, free from his tutelage:
Has her own household on the street of Fortune;
Welcomes her guests, and like a princess too,
And entertains them, as Aspasia might,
Had the light dame been pure as is this maid.

Sal.
Hey, Clodius! you are eloquent today!
Arbaces' ward? I like not that.

Clod.
Nor I.

Sal.
They give him out a sorcerer. And we see
How he has turned this city upside down
With his new worship of Egyptian Isis.
God's, man! her temple elbows Jupiter's,
And puts our ancient Thunderer to shame,
With her increasing crowds of devotees,
While his cold shrine stands empty.

Clod.
In good faith,
If our old Latin gods gave us no aid—
In spite of sacrifices and processions—
During the recent earthquakes; do you blame
The silly folk for flying to new gods,
After the old ones fail them? I do not.
As for Arbaces, he is rich, and lives
In Oriental splendor; and there is
A world of mystic beauty in his face,
Dark as the grave, and as unfathomable,
That wins the curious gazer at a glance.

Sal.
He has the evil eye; to that I'll swear.
All things are blighted that he looks upon.

Clod.
Pish! I have supped with him; and such a feast
I shall not see again until the gods
Transport me to Olympus. Look at me:
Do I look blighted with the evil eye?

Sal.
Not yet; but wait: the bane is slow but sure.
But when came Glaucus back?

Clod.
A few days since;
While we were witnessing that wondrous show,
The Emperor's coronation rites at Rome.

Sal.
Was he not there?

Clod.
He! it is said he told
His old friend Titus, to his very teeth,
That he would never seen an emperor crowned,
While Greece remains enslaved.

Sal.
And Titus?

Clod.
Oh!
He only laughed: he and the Greek are friends.
Too close to quarrel.

Sal.
And for that, 'tis said,
Our Praetor scowls on Glaucus; and suspects
He will be ousted from his office here,
Since Titus reigns, for certain sentences,
Against the Greeks, which Glaucus has denounced
As cruelties. Let Glaucus have a care;
Or, ere he gain his end, the Praetor's hand
Will fall upon him.

Clod.
Have no fear for him.
What are our stupid Romans at intrigue
Against the subtle Greeks, and, of all men,
Against a man of Glaucus' influence,
Wealth, wit, and boundless popularity.
Fear for the Praetor, Sallust.

Sal.
As for him,
I wish him all the ill the gods may send,
And to his crony, that Egyptian snake,
You are so fond of supping with.

Clod.
[Laughing]
Ha! ha!
When he invites you, you will change your tune.

Nyd.
[Sings without]

Stra.
Here comes that little termagant again,
Singing her treason. You blind idiot.
Ha! would you have me make you sing, you slut,
Another song? [Threatens Nydia]


Bur.
Yes, answer that! [Pushes Nydia rudely]


Stra.
Hands off!
By Pollux, if you touch my slave!—Come here,
You Grecian baggage! Sing a song like this. [Sings grotesquely]

Buy flowers—buy flowers—for—for—for—
Buy flowers—for—for—

Dud.
Brava! for what? to fill your purse? Here girl,
Here is a piece of gold for you. Take care
Your mistress do not see it. [Gives her a coin]


Bur.
What, real gold? [Tries to snatch it]


Stra.
Of course, it is. [Pushing him aside]
You do not think a youth,
So sweet-faced and so gay, would give a maid—
A poor, blind damsel—anything but gold? [Takes and pockets the coin]


Bur.
I thought so, Chucky; and I wished to see—

Stra.
“You wished to see!” You wished to see it melt
In wine, you tosspot! No, no; this is safe,
To feed our children, after you have drowned
Your life in liquor.

Bur.
“Children?” We have none.

Stra.
But who knows what might happen? Go, girl, go!
Your market waits you.—Vixen, hop, and sing!

Nyd.
[Sings, offering her flowers for sale to all. Some take and others reject her flowers]

[Exit, followed at a distance by Burbo and Stratonice, watching her. Shouts, music, etc., without. Enter a procession of Gladiators, bearing Lydon, crowned with a wreath, in a litter upon their shoulders. All singing]

[Lydon descends from the litter. The Gladiators disperse about the stage. Music. Enter Soldiers, who force aside the people, then enter the Praetor, attended by Officers, Guards, Slaves, etc.]
Prae.
Halus, come here! Let not a thing like this
Happen again. You were remiss today.
The majesty of Rome is trample on
By such a scene.

1st Off.
My lord, we could not pass
Without a use of weapons.

Prae.
Use them, then,
On such occasion. Shall a Praetor stop,
To let a Greek light from his chariot;
And before all, this demagogue, this Glaucus,
Who spends his wealth in ostentatious shows
Of charity, to win the rabble's shouts?
Go over him, and all his following,
When next we meet.

1st Off.
I shall obey, my lord.
But Glaucus—

Prae.
Glaucus! Fellow, that man's name
Is wormwood to me. Let him watch his house,
Or I may tumble it about his ears.
March on, without a pause; and let the mob
Care for its toes and heels.

1st Off.
Attention! March! [Exeunt the Praetor and train, driving the people aside]


Sal.
Pray mark that, Clodius, how his majesty
Crushes the people underneath his feet!

Clod.
Gods, yes! I wonder when the brute will wipe
Our senatorial purple with his hoofs?

Lyd.
Hey, comrades, did we risk our lives all day
In the arena, to amuse that man,
To have our bodies prodded with his spears,
Here, in the peaceful street?

1st Glad.
By Hercules.
I'd like to catch him once upon our ground,
When spears were flying!

Lyd.
Yes, you mighty man,
You'd run from him, just as you did from me,
This very morning. [All the Gladiators laugh]


1st Glad.
Lydon, won't you, now,
Allow a fellow to agree with you? [Music. Enter Glaucus, followed by Saphax, Freedmen, Attendants, etc. Two Ethiopians fanning him with large peacock fans]


Sal.
You are most welcome back, my lord.

Glau.
Your slave,
Good Sallust! Clodius! Dudus!—Do you mind,
Standing a little off, to let the breeze
Have passage to me? It is very hot:
I drove home from the game, and eat a fig,
And that fatigued me. [Seats himself, languidly]


Sal.
That fatigued you! Ah!
You find it hard work living?

Glau.
Very hard.
If one could only live without the strain
Of eating, drinking, drawing breath, and, oh!
Eternal dressing; life to me might be,
Quite tolerable. Fan me. [Negroes fan violently]

And Eolus, you chill me. Gently now Boreas.
Give me a zephyr, not a hurricane.
Clodius, some day these things of ebony
Will blow me quite away.

Sal.
How pitiful!

Glau.
You have a kind heart, Sallust.

Sal.
Tell me, Glaucus,
Where were you for the last six months?

Glau.
Ah me!
It is a labor to remember that.
Voyaging about the world, in search of rest.
I was so bored with Egypt, India,
And what I saw of rugged Scythia,
That I came back to find my mansion here
Split through with earthquakes, all my frescoes cracked,
And half the people houseless. Why will not
The earth keep still; and at least until I die?

Dud.
He's simply perfect! Shall I ever be
Just like him?

Glau.
Clodius, have you ever read
Strabo, our Naturalist?

Clod.
No.

Glau.
Sallust, you?

Sal.
We are not scholars.

Glau.
Nor am I. It must
Be most fatiguing to learn anything;
So useless too. They say, our Strabo says,
Yon pigmy mountain—no more than a wart
On nature's face—yonder Vesuvius—
Was once volcanic. That was long ago,
Ere history began. And that same Strabo—
That quite unpleasant person—further says,
That at some future day, Vesuvius
May take it in its silly head once more
To burst in flame and lava on the world.

Dud.
What a sensation that would make!

Glau.
Well said!
You are the prince of dandies. [Patting Dudus]


Clod.
But, my lord,
The thought is terrible.

Sal.
We dwellers here
Would not be safe.

Glau.
Safe, Sallust! We would be
Cooked, like so many capons, in our fat.

Dud.
How very droll!

Clod.
Now I remember, once,
I heard Arbaces say the self same thing;
But as a prophet, not a naturalist.

Dud.
Then I will bet a talent, more or less,
It is a lie, and will not come to pass.

Glau.
Hey, Dudus, sceptical?

Dud.
Of him, my lord.
I have laid up a fortune, by my bets
Against the oracles of Isis. Yes:
I'll give you two to one, no prophecy,
Made in her temple, ever is fulfilled.

Glau.
Speaking of betting; was not Lydon here?

Dud.
Yes. Lydon, Lydon! [Bring Lydon forward]


Glau.
So you won today?

Lyd.
My lord, before you, I should blush with shame
For my poor adversaries. They must be
Weaklings indeed in your sight.

Glau.
Nay; why so?

Lyd.
Have you forgot our practice, when you drove me
Before you like a feather? I would face
A storm of lightning sooner than your blade.

Glau.
But that was play, my Lydon.

Lyd.
Not to me;
I did my best. I was so furious,
I would have killed you if I could; my lord,
Had I your arm and skill, I'd go to Rome,
And face the champions of the world; for that
Might hasten matters.

Glau.
Hasten what?

Lyd.
My end,
Or something better. Do not think, my lord,
I am a brute from taste, to maim and kill
My comrades but to hear the arena roar.

Glau.
You are an honest fellow. Out with it!
I'd like to have a reason why a man
Should be a gladiator.

Lyd.
Oh! this world
Is hard to some of us. I have a father,
Old and half blind, whose dulness feels the lash
When he is halting.—In a word, a slave.
You know what that means, when the taskmaster
I, pitiless.

Glau.
Ye gods! And so you fight—

Lyd.
But to win gold enough to set him free.

Glau.
Saphax!

Saph.
My lord. [Advances]


Glau.
Take Lydon, and go buy
His father's freedom.

Saph.
At what price, my lord?

Glau.
How do I know? His owner will tell that.
By Pallas, one day I shall go insane
With men's eternal questions. Fan me, boys!

Lyd.
My lord—

Glau.
Oh! yes; I see your eyes. Enough!—
Do not excite me.

Lyd.
Only this, then, more.
If you should ever need a man to die,
Smiling and happy, for you—

Glau.
Pray, be gone!
You make me warm. [Exeunt Lydon and Saphax]

Forgive me this disturbance.
Lydon is dreadful with his gratitude.
But then I won some money on the knave,
And owe him that much for his victory.

Sal.
Who lost?

Glau.
The Praetor lost to me. He let
His spite outrun his judgment.

Clod.
That accounts
For why he used the crowd so brutally,
As he passed by.

Glau.
Yes, yes; he is a brute—
Like all Romans.

Sal.
Thanks!

Glau.
For what?—the truth?
Do you so seldom hear it? Poor, poor Praetor!
Some people tell me it is very hard
To be a gentleman.

Dud.
Delicious!

Glau.
Hum!
I must displace this Praetor, when I have time
To write to Titus. And, meanwhile, one pig,
One Roman pig, is like another.

Clod.
Glaucus,
You can say anything.

Glau.
Like truth, I hope.
I am so weary! Would you mind, my friends,
To talk a little less?

Dud.
The gods be thanked
For such a man among us! [Enter Ione, borne in a litter, followed by Waiting Women, Attendants, etc.]


Glau.
[Regarding her intently]
Who is that?

Sal.
A woman.

Glau.
Nay, a goddess, if they grace
Our wretched planet, as they did of old.

Clod.
Hey! Glaucus! you are waking.

Glau.
Who is she?

Clod.
Ione of Neapolis; a Greek—
And so far like yourself—rich, cultured, young,
And as you see her. Is she beautiful,
According to your fancy?

Glau.
Marvellously!

Clod.
Shall I present you?

Glau.
If she will. [Clodius approaches Ione]


Clod.
Hail, fairest!

Ione.
Welcome, most courteous Clodius!

Clod.
May your slave
Present a friend, Glaucus of Athens, to you?

Ione.
How now, the sybarite, the woman-scorner?
What has bewitched him?

Clod.
Ask that of your eyes;
Or, better still, of him.

Ione.
Well, I confess,
I have a woman's curiosity
To know why he would meet me.

Clod.
You are gracious. [Goes to Glaucus, and returns with him to Ione]

Permit me lady, to present my friend,
Glaucus of Athens. As you both are Greek,
I leave you to your treasonable talk
Against poor Rome. [Retires]


Glau.
The treason of the slave,
To curse his chains, to love his native land;
And, above all, to love that liberty
Which is, or should be, all men's heritage.

Ione.
What's that? [Springing from her litter eagerly]


Glau.
What Clodius would call treason. Lady,
I hope it is not treason to your ears. [They sit]


Ione.
To mine? Oh, no! These are the noblest words
I ever heard; though startling, as from you.
My Greece—oh, let me say our Greece—my dream
Of glory is to see her marble face
Once more ablaze with that grand liberty
Which made her forehead beautiful of old.

Glau.
Yes, beautiful as yours, her faithful child;
Faithful amid the false!

Ione.
How men have wronged
Your nature, Glaucus!

Glau.
Hardly. I was born,
Save in my blood, a Roman. All my race,
Since our subjection, held great offices,
And power and wealth, under almighty Rome,
Trampling upon their country, as the slave,
Put in the master's place, will ever do.
I am ashamed to utter what you hear;
But, Heaven knows, not ashamed of what I feel,
In spite of that which made my boyhood base,
And my youth idle. What is the career
A Greek may follow, while the heavy heel
Of Rome is resting on his country's neck
With hopeless weight? What can the slave do now
But serve the master?

Ione.
He can strike, and die.

Glau.
Yet to no purpose; and cheerless fact
Has made an idler of me, in a world
Where action is in vain, and mankind groans
Under a burden he cannot shake off.

Ione.
Is this the trifler, Glaucus?—this strong man,
Alive with thoughts of empire for his race,
Albeit desperate?

Glau.
Never would I be
A trifler in your eyes. You have aroused
Feelings that slept, and only dreamed, sometimes,
Of possible fulfilment, till your soul
Looked into mine, and made the dream appear
Reality, and you the living type
Of Grecian liberty. Pray, pardon me!
But we must not be strangers; for my heart
Was ready as a temple, for the shrine
And statue of the goddess, ere you came
To make my life your worship.

Ione.
[Aside]
What is this,
This fiery current setting to my heart?
Lie quiet, traitor! It is not the man;
It is my country wakes you into life. [Enter Apaecides]


Apae.
Sister!

Ione.
My brother, welcome! [They embrace]
Pray you know
Glaucus of Athens. [They bow stifly]


Apae.
Who does not know him,
Who has an eye for glitter and for pomp?

Glau.
I pray you, do not make me blush, to hear
How I am known. Perhaps there is a soul,
Under my garb, more worth the knowing.

Ione.
Yes;
For that I answer.

Apae.
You!

Glau.
A neophyte
Of Isis, by your robe?

Ione.
A neophyte,
No more; not yet a priest.

Apae.
Nor e'er to be,
Perhaps; a scholar merely.

Glau.
Then you read,
Our Grecian sages, the philosophers?

Apae.
Not I.

Glau.
Not Plato even?

Apae.
[Aside]
Ye gods, 'tis strange!
[Aloud]
Do you know Plato?

Glau.
Yes, almost by rote.
Let me commend to you the fountainhead
Of human wisdom, whose exhaustless flow
Springs from the earth, and soars into the heavens;
Links creature to Creator; makes our life
One with its Source, immortal as the Power
Which is the central soul of all that is.

Ione.
This is pure teaching, Glaucus.

Apae.
[Aside]
I am stunned:
Such words from him!

Glau.
Are you not curious
To have a glimpse of Plato's heaven?

Apae.
I am.

Glau.
Come to my house then. I have roll on roll
Of Plato's writings in my library.

Apae.
You have a library!

Glau.
In Greek alone.
'Tis hard to tempt a man so bigoted
To read the works of the barbarians.

Ione.
O Brother, Brother, you should not neglect
The writers of our country. Where on earth
Find you such poets and philosophers,
Such dramatists, and such historians,
So full of beauty, power and sacred truth,
As in the writers of our native land?

Apae.
I shall accept your hospitality;
Perhaps to own a teacher in yourself.
[Aside]
This is the strangest of strange things; to find
A scholar hidden in the glittering garb
Of Glaucus, the Athenian fop! [Enter Arbaces, Calenus and a brilliant train of Freedmen, Slaves, etc.]


Arb.
How now!
Your litter waiting in the public streets!

Ione.
Where 'er it is, it waits without your leave,
Asked or expected.

Arb.
Pardon me. I saw
The child that used to run with outstretched arms,
Into my bosom from a stranger's face.
I still forget the change.

Ione.
Remember it.
You should not wish to make a child of me
Before the world. Permit me to present
Glaucus of Athens.

Arb.
Glaucus? We have met
Before, I think.

Glau.
I cannot recollect.

Arb.
Your memory is as bad then as your manners.

Glau.
My lord, I try to make my company
Better than either.

Arb.
You are keen.

Glau.
What, I?
Only by contrast with a duller wit.

Arb.
By Horus!—

Ione.
Peace! Do not forget my presence.

Arb.
'Twere better, than to see you sitting thus,
Like an Aspasia, in a public place.

Glau.
Strange words from an Egyptian. In your land,
For ages, women held the public place—
Did the man's duties, as we know them here;
While he with distaff in his puny hand,
Or babe on knee, sat with his modesty
Safely secluded in his wife's abode.
This thing was so, or else your chronicles
Lie about that, as well as other things.

Arb.
Ha! ha! it moves my mirth, to hear a Greek
Be so ungrateful, as to cast a slur
Upon the land to which he owes the birth
Of all his saucy greatness. Where were art,
Religion, wisdom, all that makes you proud,
Had you not stolen from Egypt everything.

Glau.
And bettered all, so that its owner knew,
But by tradition, that the thing was his.
Or if, indeed, the mother germ of all
Slumbered not in the twilight of the race,
And wakened when the worthiest called.

Cal.
[Aside]
Ha! now,
Here is a nimble wit, and rich. I wonder
If service with him might not pay me more
Than starving with Arbaces. Gold is gold,
Wherever it be mined. [Enter Nydia, running, pursued by Stratonice, Burbo and a laughing crowd]


Stra.
Ha! nimble legs,
You will outrun your mistress then! [Seizes Nydia]


Ione.
[To Glaucus]
My lord—

Bur.
Take that! [Offers to strike Nydia]


Glau.
[Hurling him aside]
Off wretch! What beast begot you then,
That you dare lift your impious hand against
Your mother's sex? [Nydia shelters herself behind Glaucus]


1st Cit.
[To Burbo]
Go at him, man!

Bur.
Not I:
His grip is torture.

Glau.
What is this about?

Bur.
Why not ask that before you cripple me?

Stra.
Bah! sheep, you crippled! With a club, you sot,
He could not kill you! Pray, your lordship, hear.
She is my slave—

Glau.
Your slave! That is name
To raise up all mankind in her defense.

Ione.
'Tis nobly said.

Glau.
What then?

Stra.
She is the most
Unbidable, cross-grained and crooked thing
That ever eat my victuals. You bad brat,
Let me but get these hooks into your skin,
And you shall know it!

Glau.
What is her offense?

Stra.
What—what? This morning, I commanded her
To wash, and dress, and put her finery on,
And go to Lord Arbaces' house—

Arb.
[Apart to her]
Hush, hush!

Stra.
That's all; she would not go.

Glau.
Why not?

Nyd.
My lord,
I am a damsel; and I cannot go
To that licentious house, where riot raves
From night till morning—

Arb.
[Apart to her]
Silence!

Nyd.
[Shuddering]
He is here!
I dare not speak. Or if I do, her whip
Will tear the skin from my shoulders.

Stra.
Yes;
That is a safe prediction. [Trumpets, etc. Enter the Praetor and train]


Prae.
What is this?
Must all our byways be obstructed thus,
To wait for you, Lord Glaucus?

Glau.
I, my lord?
I am most innocent of this. Behold,
A public illustration of the charms
Of your domestic slavery. That blocks
The thoroughfare, and makes the heart
Hard as the stones we tread on.

Prae.
[Saluting her]
Fair Ione! [She bows coldly]

My noble friend Arbaces. [They salute cordially]

Tell me now,
Why is the rabble gathered thus? To hear
A lecture on the naked, sovereign man,
Or the nobility of poverty,
From one whose race runs backward to the gods;
And whose poor fortune, turned to gold, would sink
Caesar's best galley. [He, Arbaces and their followers laugh]


Arb.
'Twas a tumult raised
With these good people, Burbo and his wife,
By that Greek gentleman, about a slave,—
Yon girl beside him. I will finish it.
Sell me the slave.

Nyd.
O gods, no! not to him.
Save me, my lord, if you have ever loved
Sister or mother! [To Glaucus]


Glau.
Burbo, let the girl
Go to my house. My steward will pay your price.

Stra.
Well, but—

Arb.
O Praetor, mark this insolence.
Mine is the prior right. I offered first.

Prae.
What say you, Burbo?

Stra.
Say! The slave is mine:
And he is mine.

Prae.
Well, well, what say you then?

Stra.
The girl earns me a living, selling flowers,
And making music for the gentlemen
At feasts and suppers. In the temples, too
She sings at festivals—the bonny bird!
She is a proper and religious girl:
'Twould break my heart to part with her.

Bur.
[Weeping]
Ye gods!—

Stra.
But if the gentlemen would have her, I
Will not prevent her bettering herself,
Poor innocent!—I therefore say, my lord,
Let him who'll pay the highest price for her,
Take the poor child from my maternal arms. [Weeps]


All Cit.
Shame!—shame!

Stra.
Oh, go to Pluto with your “shame”!

Prae.
Most provident affection! Be it so.

Bur.
But this is hard—so hard!— [Weeping]


Stra.
Stop, ass! we've had
Enough of that.

Prae.
My lord Arbaces, bid.
Yours is the first chance.

Arb.
Let the Greek speak first:
I waive my right.

Glau.
I do protest, my lord,
Against this thing as most unseemly. What,
Make a slave market of the pleasure ground
Of the whole people!

Prae.
Oh, “the people”—pah!
You always have the people in your mouth.

Glau.
I am but one of them.

Prae.
Come bid, come bid! [Glaucus looks at Ione, who smiles assent to him]


Glau.
Then I will give a talent more for her
Than any bid the Egyptian may make.

Cal.
Now have a care. If you go very high,
He'll let you take the girl. Beware Greek tricks! [Apart to Arbaces]


Arb.
Well thought of. 'Tis a farce. She is not worth
The tenth part of a talent. I am not
A fool!

Cal.
No, not that way. Who ever said
Arbaces was a fool in lavishness? [Aside laughing]


Prae.
Then you abandon bidding?

Arb.
I will not
Stand here, to be a butt, before the mob,
To his audacious wealth. The infernal gods
Give you the profit of your purchase, Greek!
Add Nydia to your Harem. You must have
A singing girl among your other things.

Glau.
My lord, this foul-tongued fellow, who respects
Neither a lady's presence nor the truth,
Should have a bridle in his liquorish mouth.

Arb.
Poh! it is public scandal.

Glau.
Then, as such,
Whisper it darkly to your sister crones
Over your sewing.

Prae.
Peace; no more of this!
The girl is yours.

Nyd.
The gods be thanked! [Kisses Glaucus's hand]


Bur.
My lord,
The price you bid—

Stra.
A talent—that it was—
An Attic talent, all in pure, bright gold.

Glau.
Yes, yes.

Cal.
You two are little less than thieves;
To sell a blind girl at a price like that.

Glau.
Blind! Is she blind?

Stra.
Not blinder than the fools
That make their offerings at Isis' shrine.

Cal.
Blind as that woman's conscience. You would not
Purchase a goat on such scrutiny.

Glau.
One cannot err in purchasing a slave
Meant for my uses at the seller's price.
The more infirm, afflicted, useless, valueless—
The more in danger of the tyrant's rod—
The more her worth to me.

Nyd.
I need not eyes
To serve you, master. Take another sense
From my defective body, leave me but
My willing heart, and I could do more work
For you, my lord, than any stalwart slave
Dare venture on.

Prae.
Bold promises sometimes
Forerun a faint performance. I have heard,
It was your boast, you never owned a slave.
Perhaps it is your policy to talk
In that way to the people.

Glau.
Policy?
No, when I have the people's ear, I feel
That I am talking to my brothers. Gods,
Forget me and my fortunes, when I dare,
Under your eyes, forget my fellow man!
I never owned a slave, 'tis true, my lord,
Longer than time was needed to set free
The hapless being. Fair Ione, deign
To give this girl the shelter of your house.

Ione.
Most willingly.

Arb.
Ione, I protest
Against your taking up this gutter filth,
This tramper of the streets, this sightless toy
Of every scamp to whom she sells a flower,
To give her lodging in your spotless home.

Nyd.
Send me not from you. Let me stay with you.
I shall no more disturb your quiet house
Than a poor mouse. I cannot go, my lord,
To that great lady's service.

Glau.
It were best.
You are a damsel, and to bide with me
Would bring you shame, whether deserved or not.

Nyd.
True, true, but then—What matter how a slave
Be thought of?

Ione.
Slave! you are a slave no more.
Hold up your face, alike to gods and men,
Free citizen of Rome! There are no slaves
Beneath my roof. No man or woman there
Serves on compulsion; but for labor done
Receives that labor's worth.

Nyd.
Hear, Mother, hear!
Bend from your blest abode above the clouds,
And hear the gentle voice that says your child
No longer is a slave. Yes, twice a slave,
If gratitude can hold an honest heart
Stronger than human bondage. [Kisses Ione's hand eagerly]


Ione.
Kiss my lips:
And let the world behold how I esteem
Your purity, my sister. [Kisses Nydia]


Nyd.
Take my soul!
My body could not serve you well enough
To recompense this blessing.

Glau.
[Aside]
Peerless maid,
How this new thing discovered in my breast,
This waking heart, is throbbing at your words!
Yea, my whole nature, in a storm of light,
Bursts from its darkness, and votary kneels
Before your feet,—forever, ever, love!
The die is cast! No rest can be for me
Until by deeds, however long and hard,
I shall have won your virgin lips to own
A kindred passion. Lo! I am transformed
Out of my former self, and am become
Inspired with vigor of the deathless gods.
What can I not achieve, thus armed, to brave
Man's puny opposition? [Ione ascends her litter. Passes along, followed by Nydia, attendants, etc.]


Ione.
Farewell, Glaucus!

Glau.
Will you not change that dreary word, farewell,
To welcome for me, when we meet again?
A house so open to the world as yours,
Should not exclude me. Shall I be received?
One word, one little word, Ione!—

Ione.
Come! [Glaucus stands looking eagerly after Ione. She, in going, turns her head once, and looks back at him]

ACT II.

Scene: A garden set with statuary, fountains, seats, flowers, etc. overlooking the bay. Vesuvius in the R.C. distance. Maids of Ione are discovered, embroidering, etc. Two or three men pass through the garden, bearing flowers, gifts, etc. and enter the palace of Ione.
1st Maid.
More violets!

2nd Maid.
Forever violets!

1st Maid.
If we were nearer Greece, I'd say those flowers
Were gathered on Hymettus.

2nd Maid.
Do you know
The violet is the national flower of Greece?

1st Maid.
Oh, yes; on holidays Minerva's fane
Is loaded with them.

2nd Maid.
Cloe, what is the Greek
For violet?

1st Maid.
I know not. Whew!—

2nd Maid.
What now?

1st Maid.
I stuck my finger. Where is Nydia?
The darling, how I love her!—she could tell
The Greek for violet.

2nd Maid.
Yes, yes; and what means
The name of Glaucus. [They all laugh]


1st Maid.
There is little need
Of a Thessalian witch to tell us that.

3rd Maid.
Mum, girls!

1st Maid.
Ask her. [They all laugh]


2nd Maid.
I dare you to.

3rd Maid.
Be still! [Enter Ione]


Ione.
What are you tittering at?

2nd Maid.
At awkward Cloe:
She stuck her finger.

1st Maid.
And it smarted so! Fie,
Unfeeling girls!

Ione.
What are you doing?

1st Maid.
[Shows embroidery]
See.

Ione.
There's too much red here, and here too much green.
Make this all violet.

1st Maid.
Violet roses! What,
And violet leaves! O nature—

Ione.
Nature! Why
Did not this tyrant nature give the rose
The violet's color and perfume?—Ah, me!
How much there is in nature, and in fate,
That might be bettered with a little taste!
Who has been here?

1st Maid.
No one, as yet.

Ione.
No one?
I wonder why my house—pleasant enough—
Is such a solitude. No one, you said?

1st Maid.
Not even my lord Glaucus.

Ione.
Child, I thought
Nothing of him. For he you know, is not—
Is not the world. He comes and goes, in faith,
Just as he chooses. [Weeps]


1st Maid.
Ah! my lady!—

Ione.
Oh!
I am so lonely! [Sits]
Nydia! Nydia! Where
Is our bird flown?

2nd Maid.
Into the streets again.
She's always homesick for the streets.

Ione.
Alas!
They were her former home.

1st Maid.
A mere pretense.
I tracked her once. Where do you think she goes?
Straight to Minerva's temple, where she spends
Whole hours in prayer and offerings of flowers
For you, my lady.

Ione.
She's a wild bird yet.
What, Nydia! [Claps her hands. Enter Nydia rapidly]


Nyd.
My lady? [Sits at Ione's feet]


Ione.
[Smoothing her head]
You are here,
At last, you little runaway.

Nyd.
My heart
Is always here, dear mistress.

Ione.
How, again
That odious name! I do not like it, child.
Call me Ione, friend, or sister, please.

Nyd.
How slavehood shapes the habits of the slave!
I thank you, lady.

Ione.
“Lady”! There again!
Call me Ione: Try!

Nyd.
[Timidly]
Ione.

Ione.
Hum!
Now call my name so all the world may hear,
Ay, and the listening gods!

Nyd.
[Boldly]
Ione!

Ione.
Good!
My Roman citizen!

Nyd.
But you are sad:
I hear it in your voice.

Ione.
I sad?

Nyd.
Alas!

Ione.
Your ears are better than another's eyes.
Truly, I am not merry. Sing to me:
But nothing cheerful. Sing a doleful song;
Something to make me feel that others are
As wretched as myself—heigh ho!

Nyd.
Ah me! [Sings]


Ione.
Weeping! Why Nydia, have you known a grief
So sad as that, and you a very child?

Nyd.
Child, child! The heart of woman is a flower
That blossoms early, and the fruits of life
Follow the bloom apace.

Ione.
Too true. What keeps
That careless man away? Has he no heart
To tell him that I wait? [Aside]
What is the hour?

1st Maid.
The tenth.

Ione.
And no one here! Surely the world
Is bathed and trimmed by this.

1st Maid.
[Apart to other maids]
For world read Glaucus.

3rd Maid.
Hush, hush! You reckless thing! [Enter a servant]


Serv.
Lord Glaucus.

Ione.
Ha!
Girls, girls, how do I look? My robes, my hair?
This girdle sits awry: give it a pull.
Hand me that bunch of violets. [Maids busy themselves about her]

There, there!
You may retire. How glorious is the day!
I thought the morning threatened rain. Go, go!

1st Maid.
Now the whole world is in the house, we must
“Go, go!” out of the crowd. [Apart to the others, who retire laughing. Enter Glaucus]


Glau.
Ione, hail!

Ione.
Hail, Glaucus! [She extends her hand, which he kisses]

[Starting]
Oh! Cannot I give my hand,
In way of greeting, without having someone
Kiss it? [Secretly kisses the hand which he kissed]


Glau.
It was imprudent to expose
My weakness to temptation.

Ione.
Ah!—my lord,
Where have you been today? I thought—

Glau
You thought?

Ione.
Nothing.

Glau.
Well thought of! I have been at home,
Obeying your commands. A loyal slave,
Even in my sovereign's absence. We have read—
Apaccides and I—a deal today,
Plato's Symposium.

Ione.
Well, well! And he?

Glau.
Is deeply moved. I left him with his brow
Knotted in thought; rereading for himself
Parts of the scroll. I could not wait—

Ione.
Not wait?

Glau.
To pay my duty here. [She extends her hand which he kisses]


Ione.
You are sorely given
To kissing people's hands.

Glau.
Not all hands.

Ione.
Then,
Apaccides is moved, you say? Perhaps
'Twill shake his faith in Isis, and the lore,
The hideous lore of Egypt.

Glau.
So I hope,
If all that is most beautiful in faith
Can win a nature, sensitive as his,
From the degrading ugliness that glares
From those brute-feathered things, whose history
Is but a record of repulsive crime.

Ione.
Thanks, Pallas! I would have my brother bide
True to our native gods. Not wander off
With doubtful strangers. And, besides, I have—
I know not why—an instinct that should he
Assume the robe of priesthood, it will end
In misery to him.

Glau.
It must not be.

Nyd.
[Sings]
The land of all lands is the land of my love,
Whose bosom the gods, from the gardens above,
Have buried in flowers, and have watered with dew,
Made grandest of nations and fairest to view.
O land of the hero, O pride of the earth!
O mother of beauty, and wisdom, and mirth!
The glory of battle, the splendor of peace,
The boast of the ages, my beautiful Greece!

Ione.
Hark, Glaucus!

Glau.
Yes. Is it the genius
Of our dear native land that sings, to wake
Contented slaves to manhood?

Ione.
No, alas
It is the blind girl, Nydia, your gift.
She is Thessalian, and fiery blood
Of her wild race is in her daring heart.
What, Nydia! [Nydia advances. Glaucus lays his hand upon her head. She starts and cowers with emotion]


Glau.
My child, where learned you that?
A song unsuited to the lips of slaves,
And to their ears.

Nyd.
Of slaves!

Glau.
Are we not slaves,
We Grecians, Roman slaves—political,
If not domestic? Who taught you that song?

Nyd.
The fierce sun's heat, the arrow of the blast,
The sounding billows, and the crash and howl
Of thunder shouted to my echoing heart:
“Freedom, forever freedom! We are that
Which Greece should be!” [Glaucus kisses her forehead]


Glau.
From her unworthy son,
Take thus your country's benediction.

Nyd.
[Starting with emotion]
Ha!
The gods have overpaid me!

Glau.
Nydia [Offering a violet]

Know you this flower?

Nyd.
The violet? Oh yes;
It is the flower of Greece.

Glau.
Its Grecian name?

Nyd.
Ion.

Glau.
And hence Ione—fairer flower
Than ever grew upon our Attic hills;
More full of sunlight to the darkened heart,
More full of odor to the weary brain,
The rest and promise of an aimless soul,
Nature's supreme consummate flower of flowers—

Ione.
My lord, my lord, you are extravagant:
You drown me with poetic dew. I feel
Like a poor violet in a deluge. Fie!
You change the color of your violet
To burning crimson. Nydia, my lord
Asked you a question.

Nyd.
Yes, I know this flower,
Whence my dear lady takes her gentle name;
Love-lies-a-bleeding is a flower I know,
Somewhat too well—the solemn amaranth.
That never dies itself, but crowns the brows
Of the pale dead as if in mockery;
The mortal and immortal side by side.
Love-lies-a-bleeding: it is often so! [Exit pensively]


Glau.
Strange girl!

Ione.
What feeling moves her? I so love
Her gentle nature that my heart would ache
At any sorrow hidden in her own. [Enter a servant]


Serv.
The priest Calenus.

Ione.
Well. [Exit Servant. Enter Calenus]


Cal.
Hail! Let me hope
My presence will not be unwelcome. I
Come as the herald of my lord. Heaven knows,
I am tired of blowing on his horn.
Shorten my skirts, and crop my priestly hair,
And I would look the slave I really am:
At a slave's wages too—frowns, growls and sneers,
And bones to comfort me; but not a glimpse
Of the dear yellow gold; and he so rich.
Gods! he must trust me. I could tell—ha! ha! [Laughing]

Were I so minded, what would make this town
Dance as if shaken with an earthquake. Well,
The time may come—

Glau.
His trust seems well deserved.

Cal.
Mum! He is coming. More anon some day. [Retires. Enter Arbaces and train]


Arb.
My ward! [Salutes Ione affectionately. Bows stiffly to Glaucus]


Glau.
That was.

Arb.
[Fiercely]
You spoke?

Glau.
Sometimes a voice
Comes from the conscience.

Ione.
Nay, nay, gentlemen;
Why will you Sicker— [A loud rumbling sound. The scenery slightly agitated]

What was that?

Glau.
A shock,
A slight one only, of the earthquake. Earth
Gives us a hint, to let her children know
We are resting on her bosom.

Ione.
But it made
My heart leap up, and every pulse stand still.

Glau.
'Twas but a trifle. Where were you, Ione,
During the recent earthquake, that so shook
Our poor Pompeii?

Arb.
Ha! he said “Ione”;
And so familiarly!

Ione.
I was away,
Upon the sea, bound to Sorrentum. Yes,
And fast asleep too. It is terrible,
To think the earth, in which we firmly trust,
Can, in a moment, be an enemy
To all her children—nay, a murderess.
Are we so little to the gods, that they
Can sweep us from their sight, as if we were
A nest of emmets?

Arb.
Lo, a mystery,
That Isis hides behind her triple veil,
And she alone can answer.

Glau.
Only one,
Among a thousand, met at every turn.
Nature is ruthless to the toys she makes:
One cannot answer whether to create,
Or to destroy, is more her purpose. Both
Go on together: the result is—what?

Arb.
Is this religion, Greek?

Glau.
No, this is life:
Faith is above it. Once I stood appalled
Amid a scene of human sacrifice
Upon this earthly altar of the gods.
I was at Smyrna, one bright summer day,
A day dropped out of Heaven, so fair it was.
At the seventh hour;—yes, 'twas at very noon—
A creeping shadow overspread the sky,
All cloudless heretofore. The dusky sun
Smouldered above us, like a dying coal,
Seen through thick smoke. The people held their breath,
And such a stillness settled on the town
As made one's life a burden. Then there came
A sound that drowned all other sounds;—a roar,
To which the nearest thunder is but tame;
Pelides' shout, that paralyzed a host,
Was but a whisper to it. Crash on crash
Followed the deafening roar, and all the land
Crept, and vibrated to and fro and swayed,
Like a dense liquid; as though one might stand
Upon tempestuous waves, and feel them move
Under our tottering feet. Great fissures yawned,
Where once were streets, and their unfathomed mouths
Swallowed a multitude, half stupefied
With wretched sickness and the sulphurous fumes
Exhaling from the earth. House fell on house,
Palace on palace, and the temples reeled
And twisted on their columns, ere they fell
Upon their vainly sacrificing priests.
Amidst the awful din of rending earth,
The rush and crash of falling walls, man's voice
Lifted in terror, moaning in despair,
Was lost; an aimless mob of fugitives,
Howling, unheard of either gods or men;
Mothers with babes hugged to their panting breasts—
I could not hear them, but I saw they shrieked;
Children, uncared for, trampled on, or tossed
Dying above the heads of ruthless men,
Swept back and forth, along the trembling shore:
All thought of sex, or rank, or manly shame
O'erwhelmed in that bewilderment of fear
And omnipresent death. The vision passed;
The dreadful sentence of the frowning gods
Was executed, and the blazing sun
Lighted again our ruined world, and smiled,
In bitter irony, upon the wreck
Of all things human—man and all his works—
In half the time that it has taken me
To dwarf the wonder with my feeble words.

Ione.
But you?

Glau.
Nay, think as little of me now,
As then I thought, amidst such dreadful scenes,
Of my poor self.

Ione.
But Clodius says your gold
Flowed, like refreshing waters, o'er the town;
Your galleys brought provisions, and thus saved
Those who survived from death.

Arb.
Could he do less?

Glau.
Thank you, my lord, for answering for me!
No less, unless I held your ghastly creed
That but the dead are happy.

Arb.
Umph! My lord,
Have you no business in the town? for I
Have somewhat with this lady. Have you not
Another fair to visit with your smiles,
And your calamities by sea and land,
That take you longer to narrate than they
Consumed in happenings?

Ione.
[Apart to him]
Pray you, Glaucus, go:
Make no reply to him.

Glau.
Is this sweet day
To be thus clouded with a slanderer's breath?
I hoped—

Ione.
Well, come again; and reunite
The shattered hours. 'Tis early: come again.

Glau.
O gracious lady, there is in my heart
That which is burning to discern a way
Unto your private ear.

Ione.
Not now.

Glau.
But when?

Ione.
O Glaucus, credit me with shame at least,
If not with maiden modesty.

Glau.
Dear heart,
What virtue is there, or in earth or Heaven,
With which my love has not endowed you?

Ione.
Go!

Glau.
I obey; but when shall I return?

Ione.
Come when Vesuvius casts her creeping shade
As far as Pansa's villa.

Glau.
Until then,
My prayers will be to Phoebus, that he urge
His fiery horses to the cooling waves.
Until we meet then, fairest.

Ione.
Till we meet. [Exit Glaucus. Nydia steals in, and seats herself apart, listening]


Arb.
Ione, if a friend may trust his eyes,
That Grecian dandy has advance apace
Into your confidence. Perhaps—but that
I scarce can credit—snake-like, he has squirmed
Into a vacant corner of your heart.

Ione.
If it were so, you are the last whom I
Should choose for a confessor.

Arb.
How is this—
This new distrust of me? Have I not been
A faithful guardian of your infancy,
Your property, your honor;—ay, that now
Comes up for guardianship.

Ione.
Of that last care
Henceforth I shall relieve your mind. I am
The proper guardian of my honor.

Arb.
Child—
Most inexperienced child—do not mistake
Your innocence for knowledge, or the power
To grapple with a wicked world. Even yet
The last conditions of your father's will
Are not fulfilled. Look here. Read for yourself. [Hands her a document]


Ione.
[Reads]
There is a casket in your custody,
Containing among other things, a letter
Of last instructions from my father. This
Is to be opened only at your house,
And in your presence—that is very strange—
When I have reached a marriageable age.
Curious conditions!

Arb.
They concern me not.
That is a matter 'twixt your father's will
And your own conscience.

Ione.
Very strange!

Arb.
Perhaps
'Twill not be so mysterious when you come
To read the letter.

Ione.
True. My father's will
Is sacred to me as a voice from Heaven.
Albeit his latter days were clouded o'er
With mental shadows, never was the time
My eyes of love lacked power to penetrate
The meaning of his heart. When shall I come?

Arb.
Now, if you will.

Ione.
Or later?

Arb.
Quite as well.
Ione, of this Glaucus?—

Ione.
What of him?

Arb.
You know the man, you know the character
He holds among his fellows, the gay tribe
That flutters in the sunlight of its days
Passing the time in revels, shows, or worse,
Debauches, that draw on the innocent
To flounder helpless in a mire of guilt,—
Ruined and ruining.

Ione.
My lord, my lord!
Is Glaucus such as one?

Arb.
Why yes; unless
The world belies him. He does not conceal
Those vices which he seems to glory in,
For the weak wonder of the rout he leads
Into perdition. Ask the first who comes.
This is not slander; 'tis the common talk
Of all who know him.

Ione.
It is very sad.
A man of his attainments—

Arb.
There it is.
That makes him more dangerous, more adroit
In bad inventions, more ingenious
To hide his wicked ways in treacherous flowers,
And thus delude the simple eyes that look
Upon his social acting when he plays
A virtuous part, as means to a success.
Ah! there is many a bitter heart that beats
Here, in Pompeii—of your sex, I mean—
Which he has rifled, and then cast aside
In his disdain, to all the world's contempt.

Ione.
Alas! alas! Can this be true?

Arb.
How else?
Ask your first friend, ask Sallust, ask that ape,
Dudus, who strives to imitate, and fails,
The foppish manners of his model. Yes,
That grinning idiot said of you, of you—
Just think of that!—in public at the games—
That Glaucus holds you now so well in hand,
That you must follow where a multitude
Of your fair sisters have already led.
Yes, and Lord Glaucus smiled to hear the words
His shallow flatterer uttered. Not a man
Of those who heard had more grace than to laugh
In chorus to their master's smile. Ye gods!
Had I but heard, I'd torn the lying tongue
Out of his teeth!

Ione.
How pitiful! Are men
Worse than the innocent can dream? Without! [Claps her hands. Nydia advances]

Nydia, give orders at my door that none
Shall enter for the day. I am not well.

Nyd.
Not Glaucus even? [Apart to Ione]


Ione.
No one. Pardon me:
I must retire.

Arb.
Forget not. You will come?

Ione.
Within an hour. [Exit Nydia]
Oh, heart, poor aching heart,
How is your dream of happiness, that seemed
To kiss the earth, and fold me in its arms,
Shattered by man's unworthiness!

Arb.
Farewell! [Exit Ione]

Triumphant! The first step is safely made:
The second plain before me. After that
She will be all my own—must be; for then
The whole world will reject her, force her back
To her sole refuge in my loving arms.
As for this Grecian fop, who crosses me,
Let him beware a man who never brooked
A life between him and a settled aim.
And this of all, the purpose of my life,
The glory of my future; which to win
Has made me stoop to falsehood, forgery.
Degrading guile—I, an Egyptian prince,
Who should command my fortune from a throne.
He must be meddling with Apaecides,
Turning his heart from Isis, to implant
The shallow creeds of his philosophers
Within his wavering brain. Goddess supreme,
Is not that sacrilege? Is not the doom
For that offense destruction; more than death,—
Annihilation both to flesh and soul? [Enter Apaecides]

My son!

Apae.
I seek my sister.

Arb.
What of that?
Have you no word in passing, for the guide
Who led your youthful steps from height to height
Of human knowledge, and who stands prepared
At last to lift old Isis' mystic veil,
And show you truth—truth absolute and pure—
Not as man see it, as the gods above?

Apae.
Delusion?

Arb.
How?

Apae.
Delusion was my word.
Even as the steps, to reach this mystic veil,
This vestibule of truth, have been through fraud
Practised upon the people. Say to what
Can falsehood lead but to the central lie,
The nothing that sustains it? No my lord,
Withdraw your hand from Isis' veil for me.
I have seen enough. I seek to know no more.
I have seen your oracle, Calenus there,
Bawling for Isis through a speaking tube
Unto her wondering worshippers. Alack!
Our poor Calenus for an oracle!
Here, take your robe of neophyte! I hurl
The garment at you, buzzing with its lies,
Like a fallen beehive; and beware the swarm
Sting not your goddess or yourself! Henceforth
I walk in freedom; and, for penance, I
Will blow the secrets of the frauds, wherein
I was concerned, to the four winds of Heaven.

Arb.
Beware!

Apae.
I fear you not.

Arb.
Recall your oath—
Its penalty, death, sudden death.

Apae.
An oath
Made in good faith with falsehood, binds me not
Longer than I can penetrate the lie.
Death! what is death to this poor mortal frame.
If lingering or if sudden, while the soul
Stands ready for its flight in either case?
But you would so befoul my spirit's wing
As to unfit it both for life and death.
Away, imposter! if my soul be pure,
I may defy your threats!

Arb.
Beware, beware!

Apae.
Look to your own house, juggler! [Exit]


Arb.
That I shall.
Calenus!

Cal.
Here, my lord.

Arb.
The blow must fall.

Cal.
On whom?

Arb.
Apaecides. He will betray
The secrets of the goddess, bring our faith
Into contempt among the multitude
By whom we live.

Cal.
The villain! As we stand
Our revenues are small enough; and mine—
With all my ticklish work at oracles,
And prodigies, and miracles, and things—
Scarcely maintains me.

Arb.
Miser! You have robbed
The patient Deity, before her face,
Of more than I can reckon.

Cal.
Ha! ha! ha! [Laughing]


Arb.
I wonder that you dare, you patent thief,
Commit such sacrilege, without the fear
Of Isis' vengeance.

Cal.
Oh! come, come, my lord!
You and I know about her vengeance, since
We deal it out ourselves. What of the lad?

Arb.
Apaecides must die.

Cal.
So I suspect:
That is the fate of all.

Arb.
But, suddenly,
And by your hand.

Cal.
Excuse me. That would do
In Egypt doubtless. Here there is a thing—
A most impertinent and prying thing—
Called Roman law, that sometimes makes the man
Who strikes the blow follow his victim's ghost.

Arb.
Amongst your other virtues, you are then
A coward.

Cal.
Call me what you please. I'll not
Stand by, and see these precious bones of mine
Fed to a tiger, while you sit at ease,
Among your noble friends, and grin at me,—
Your poor Calenus! I am not a fool:
No; not to that extent.

Arb.
I am glad to know
There is a limit to your folly. Well,
Put by your fears. I'll hire some ruffian,
Some gladiator, or some desperate slave,
To do the work. At all events, I'll take
This business on myself. 'Twere surer thus.

Cal.
Surer and safer for your humble slave.

Arb.
Yes, 'twere absurd to trust you.

Cal.
Cunning ape,
You'll get no fiery chestnuts by the paw
Of this poor pussy! [Aside]
Are you done, my lord?

Arb.
Yes, yes; you tire me.

Cal.
Then, I'll go and make
The eyes of Isis roll above the worshipers.
I greased her up last night; and now she works
Without a hitch. I have some oracles,
Of double import, for my trumpet too.
Come see, my lord, if you can keep your face,
And not spoil all with your untimely laughter.

Arb.
Go, go, you knave!

Cal.
Quoth pot to kettle. [Enter Glaucus followed by Nydia]
Humph!
Here is another customer for you, my lord! [Salutes Glaucus and exits]


Glau.
Go, Nydia, to your lady. Take this flower. [Gives a violet]

It was a talisman but yesterday,
To make me welcome. There is some mistake.
Deny me, child! Not half an hour ago.
She bade me to return. Say I am here.
According to my promise.

Arb.
What is this,
This mawkish sentiment, so out of place?
You must have left your manners in the street,
To force an entrance to a lady's house.

Glau.
If you should find them, do not pick them up:
They will not fit you.

Arb.
Heaven be praised for that!

Glau.
Fly, Nydia. [Exit Nydia]
My lord, we are alone—

Arb.
Not quite so much alone as I would be.

Glau.
I'll not detain you. Go, and have your wish.
My purpose in addressing you was this:
You seem to bear me some ill-will—just why
I neither know nor greatly care. Perhaps
Your hatred is so deadly, that 'twould suit
To ease your rancor even with my life.
Lo! I am at your service. Any day
During my natural life, however remote,—
Though we outlast your mummies—I shall be
Obedient to your call, in any way,
With any weapons, any time and place,
Your fancy may determine.

Arb.
This indeed
Is gross self-flattery. Can you think I feel
So deeply toward so slight a thing as you?
Ione comes. After she answers you,
You may feel tamer. [Enter Ione followed by Nydia]


Ione.
I am here, my lord.
I understand you will not be denied:
See me you must. Why is this urgency,
When I have other cares that need me?

Arb.
Good!
There's frost upon his fire. [Aside. He retires]


Glau.
Ione!—What,
What has changed you? Is it but caprice,—
Your sex's birthright? Is your memory
A mere convenience? I beseech you, be
True to yourself, if not to me.

Ione.
My lord,
Truth to myself compels me to this course.
I should be false indeed to all I know
Of woman's purity, and the demands
That custom makes upon a maiden's fame,
If I consented longer to permit
Your visits to me.

Glau.
That should be enough
For pride to hear, without reply. But I—
Pardon the weakness—have a heart that lies
Prostrate before your mercy. Not again,
Though I should tire the ages with my life,
Can I feel pride towards you; or any passion,
Save that which overwhelms all else and me,
The deep humility of sovereign love.
I do confess, lower than I can kneel,
A sense of my unworthiness; but you,—
Goddess in all things, as your form declares,—
May lift demerit higher than its worth,
And, with a smile bestow a happiness,
For which the worthiest victor upon earth
Would give his laurels.

Ione.
You o'erestimate
A transient feeling. You are of the world,
A king among the gaudy butterflies
Of fleeting fashion. Seek your world again
And there forget me, as you will.

Glau.
Alas!
Henceforth for me is no forgetfulness.
Like mortals who have tasted heavenly food—
The nectar and ambrosia of the gods,
At an Olympian banquet—I shall thirst
For that which made my clay almost divine.

Ione.
My lord, 'tis needless to prolong our words.
I am resolved.

Glau.
Resolved! So pitiless!
What have I done deserving your contempt?
Grant me no better than my ruder sex,
Grant I want all that makes you lovable;
Surely I am no worse than other men,
Than those you tolerate, to come and go
Under the roof your presence makes a Heaven.

Ione.
Not worse?

Glau.
I know not that I am. If I
May sit in judgment on myself, I say
That I am guilty only of such sins
As thoughtless youth commits. I never wronged
Man with a lie or woman with a vow.
I may have had my follies, until you
Walked, goddess-like, across my path of life,
And, with a glance, transformed me; made me shake
The flowers of pleasure from me; made me strive,
With all resolution of my soul, to be
Somewhat akin to you in guiltlessness,
If not in natural purity. Alas!
Who has maligned me? Who could make your heart
Do me the wrong of listening with belief
To false reports? Why do I ask? See, see,
That dusky shadow which steals back and forth
Across the scene, an omen of mischance!
What touch but his could soil the robe of truth
So darkly and so foully? If I do
Injustice to the man whom I suspect,
I ask his pardon. Silent still? O speak!
Who charges me with aught that should affect
Your former kindness towards me?

Arb.
[Advancing]
I.

Glau.
Go on.

Arb.
I told my ward, and still maintain my words,
That one of your loose habits, one whose life
Is given to daily riot, one whose wont
It is to sneer at woman's purity—
Pointing your scorn by instance of the girls
Who gather round your gold with open hands—
I told this fair and innocent young maid,
That you are not a proper man to come
Nearer to her than coldest courtesy
Sanction if you should come at all.

Glau.
Oh, shame!
You told her this, yet dare to come yourself,
Soiled with the orgies of your wicked house?
You who make lust religion, thinly veil,
With impious Isis' presence, deeds so foul
That their mere mention makes a wholesome taste
Sick at their fancy. But go on, go on!

Arb.
The goddess will avenge the sacrilege
Your ignorance has uttered at her rites.

Glau.
But was this all?

Arb.
Enough I think.

Ione.
My lord,
You told me something personal to me:
An outrage done to common decency,
Even though I be so humble that my name
May be the gossip of abandoned men,
Reclining idly at the bloody games.

Glau.
Ah, ha! I see a light begins to break
Out through the darkness. What of that?

Arb.
Of that?
Let me remember: I forget. . . . Oh, yes:
There was a rumor—scandal—what you will:
Haply not true, but proving, true or false,
What an unfit associate you are—
Because of your companionship, my lord—
For any maiden who regards her fame
Above her transient pleasure.

Glau.
Out with it!
My heart is standing in my mouth to speak,
When you are done.

Arb.
It was trifling thing—
I give the rumor as it came to me.
'Tis said that at the games—some time ago—
One of your comrades used Ione's name
Without that reverence which a man should show
Towards one as unprotected as she is,
Coupling her name with yours—the merry fool—
And that you smiled, which made the others laugh.

Glau.
Then I deserved to have my carcass thrown,
Alive and shrieking, to the hungry beasts.
Do you believe it?

Arb.
Nay—

Glau.
For if you do,
Why do you let me live an instant more?
Methinks her cause would make a coward brave
As angry Herakles. Witness my oath,
Great Power, to whom the secret soul of man
Is as an open volume, if by act or thought
I ever to your fairest creature paid
A less respect than to yourself! Oh, no;
My love is my religion; and its shrine.
Within my heart, is spotless as the maid
To whom 'tis consecrated. Why should I
Stoop to deny a lie so evident?
Or to disclaim what were impossible
To any offspring of my ancient race?
Look you, Egyptian, I am that which you
Cannot conceive of, princely though you are—
I am a gentleman.

Arb.
The gods forbid,
I should deny a title of his rank
To one of their descendants. Dearest child,
A madman must be humored, to avoid
Scandal, or worse, even bloodshed in your house.
Get him away. I am not quite a stone,
And he may move me in the end. Be sure,
As I shall tell you in a little while,
That there is more of truth in this report
Than he can meet by anything but rage. [Apart to Ione]


Glau.
You are still silent; and in that I read
My fate, even harder than it is unjust.
I have o'erstaid your pleasure it would seem.
If, lady, sometime in the happy life—
Which the gods grant you!—it may ever be
That you shall need a friend—no common friend,
But one who will confront impending death
With solemn pleasure, but to save you pain—
Cry Glaucus, cry it to the listening air,
And, though I be a thousand leagues away,
The sound will reach me; and, with such a speed
As lightning rushes from the hand of Jove,
I shall appear before you. As for you,
Arbaces, traitor to the truth of Heaven,
The world is not so wide, but we shall meet
Before the throne of justice.

Arb.
[Apart to her]
Come, come, child!
Leave to the vanquished schemer all the good
Possession of the field may give. For this
Is not a place where you should linger now;
As though you doubted that which you have said;
Thereby inviting him to ask of you
Another hearing.

Ione.
[Apart to him]
I do doubt indeed.

Arb.
Have you not character enough to stand
Upon your own matured decision, backed
By the approval of your dearest friend?
Pshaw! this is weakness, and unworthy her
Whose reason, from her infancy, I trained,
Not as a woman's, as a man's, to cope
With the delusive lures that falsehood spreads
Before the senses.

Ione.
By my brain gives way,
And from the center of my prophet heart,
I hear a voice, that cries, in reason's spite:
Glaucus is true!

Arb.
You are bewildered, child.
Take time to think. I'll answer that this bird
Will come again whene'er you whistle him.
Then let tomorrow, if you so decide,
Heal up the wound that you have given today.
Come to my house, as you have promised me;—
I will precede you there a little while;—
And after you have read your father's letter,
We may talk over calmly, and without
This stress of passion, your poor heart affair,
That, to my colder judgment, now appears
Both weak and miserable. Pray, be firm.

Ione.
Arbaces?

Arb.
Dear Ione?

Ione.
Fly at once:
Outstrip the wind, and these delaying thoughts;
Or I shall stand here, parleying with my heart,
Until I shame myself!

Arb.
[Aside]
Victorious! [Exit with Ione, supporting and drawing her off]


Glau.
Gone! Not a word of parting or regret!
Gone with that basest, falsest, worst of men;
Electing him and falsehood for her guides,
Rather than love and truth—than me. Alas!
There is the sting, there in my very heart—
The personal, the selfish, famished cry
For love bestowed, demanding love's return.
And yet I thought that, one time, in her eyes
I saw the dawning light of what might be,
Full risen, a golden day of love for me.
Oh, cruel deception! Is it possible,
The gods should clothe a sorceress, whose guile
Is to entrap and ruin trusting men,
In such a winning shape; so outward fair,
That Solon's self would say the temple's walls
Must enshrine a goddess radiant with the beams
Of every heavenly virtue? Oh! shame, shame,
Upon the doubt! I will not credit it.
She is both pure and virtuous; or I see
A prodigy, before unknown on earth,
Of beauty false unto itself. Poor heart,
Toil on, toil ever! In this earthly life
There's but one goal for you. I gird myself,
Like the Olympian runner, for the race.
The prize or forfeit, at the course's end,
I see before me—love or death! [Enter Nydia]


Nyd.
Or death!
What has the youth and the abounding life
Of happy Glaucus yet to do with death?

Glau.
Judge your own happiness, my child; but fear
To answer for another.

Nyd.
You are wise.
But what has happened in this house, since I
Left it so merry, to yourself and her
Who just fled from it? As I stood beside
Her litter, as she mounted, I could hear
Her heart that beat, as an alarm to life,
While death besieged it.

Glau.
Ask her. It is not
For me to know why her heart beats.

Nyd.
But why
This bitterness?

Glau.
A moment hence, you'll ask,
Why this strange sweetness? Such is human life.
Where went your mistress?

Nyd.
To Arbaces' house.

Glau.
Ha!

Nyd.
You may well exclaim.

Glau.
Why went she there?

Nyd.
Why goes the dove into the fowler's snare?
I begged her not to go, but all in vain.
I warned her of the danger, vain that too.
She seemed as one who desperately walks
Straight on a peril, full before her set,
Because it is so fated.

Glau.
Why do you
Tarry here safely, while a danger hangs
Over your mistress' head?

Nyd.
I seek you, Glaucus.
Woman's aid cannot avail her now.
She needs the brain and strong determined hand
That serve your courage.

Glau.
She shall have them.

Nyd.
Man,
Are you asleep? Will you not take alarm?
Have you not seen, unless you are blinder far
Than I am, that Arbaces, in his way—
His vile, unscrupulous, remorseless way—
Loves her?

Glau.
He loves her!

Nyd.
Yes, and means this day,
By fair means or by foul, to win her.

Glau.
Gods!
And we stand talking! [Going]


Nyd.
Pause, my lord: one word.
You, singly, cannot rescue her—

Glau.
But I
Can die in the endeavor.—

Nyd.
That would be
Death and dishonor, at one blow, to both.
Hear me, my lord. I know Arbaces' house
From roof-tree to foundation-stone: I can
Without the knowledge of an inmate there,
So place you that, whene'er she needs your help,
You, in a moment, may be at her side.
Think what depends on this—her life, her love,
Her spotless name, her future and your own.
Success is born of prudence, not of force.

Glau.
Delay no more. But place me face to face
With any wretch that means to do her wrong,
And if I fail to win her, from the mace
Brandished by Herakles, this thing is sure,
That I shall never know it, if by death
We mean oblivion of this world's affairs.

Nyd.
My signal to you, howso'er you stand,
Victor or vanquished, be my Grecian song:
When you hear that—

Glau.
Away! we waste the time,
While she, perhaps, now stands on peril's brink,
Frozen with horror. Girl, I feel my sword
Creep in its scabbard; my ethereal soul
Loosens its hold upon my grosser clay, and soars,
Like a young eagle, with defying breast,
Fronting the storm of life or calm of death!
We can contrive our plan upon the wing,
As well as here. Delay may mean defeat.

Nyd.
[Aside]
Shade of my mother, have I not done well? [Exeunt rapidly]

ACT III.

Scene: The palace of Arbaces. A great hall, richly furnished, containing strange astrological and alchemical instruments, a library of scrolls, etc. A statue of Isis, with a coffer at the base. A table upon which are papers and a naked sword. In the center of flat a large archway, covered with curtains. As the curtain rises, an orgy of Isis is going on—with music, dancing and drinking, etc. Enter Arbaces hastily.
Arb.
Vanish! I weary of these mummeries. [Exeunt suddenly all the revellers]

Calenus! sluggard, have you leaden feet? [Enter Calenus deliberately]


Cal.
The slave reports that she has left her house,
Bound hither.

Arb.
Well.

Cal.
[Aside]
For you, mayhap: for her—

Arb.
Are the ships ready? All the stores aboard?

Cal.
All but the treasure.

Arb.
That will be embarked,
Under my eyes.

Cal.
[Aside]
He does not trust me. Well,
I would not trust him were his case my own.

Arb.
The captains are instructed, and can cut
Their cables in a trice, and put to sea?

Cal.
At any moment.

Arb.
And the secret way,
That leads from this room to the shore, has that
Been cleared of rubbish? It has been disused
So long, that it may be encumbered.

Cal.
Yes:
And torches are at hand to light the way.
I wonder if I told you—

Arb.
Told me what?

Cal.
Something about that passage.

Arb.
What?

Cal.
One day,
About a month ago, when she was here
Singing for you, I met blind Nydia
Feeling her way along the dripping walls
Of that same passage. Why, the gods can tell.
For when I boxed her ears, and questioned her,
She sank into that obstinate, dumb mood,
She is so good at, and made no reply.
I think that little demon knows the house
Better than any rat that ranges it.

Arb.
Pshaw! she is harmless.

Cal.
Yes; so was the mouse
That gnawed the lion's net.

Arb.
You will remain.

Cal.
For what?

Arb.
To take my property in charge,
And carry on your house of Isis work.

Cal.
Oh, Pluto take old Isis and her work!
I am sick of her. Our profits will run down
Almost to nothing if Apaecides
Turn traitor, and go brawling through the streets
About my new machinery, as he threatens.
Ha! ha! the scoffer calls me—think of it—
“The soul of Isis!” Well, as if the goddess
Might not have had a worse soul than myself.

Arb.
Apaecides? He must be looked to. You
Think sacrificing him to Isis' wrath
Were dangerous.

Cal.
Very: for the worldly law
Might call our good deed by another name—
Murder, for instance.

Arb.
Umph! I have a crypt,
Under this very room, of solid rock;
There he might pass the remnant of his days
In penitence to Isis, or relate
His dangerous stories to the listening stones.

Cal.
An excellent and pious pastime.

Arb.
[Aside]
Yes.
Should you become irksome to me, you,
You grasping miser, also may find room
In the same lodging. [Aloud]
You must watch the boy:
Track him about the city like a hound;
Know all his doings, from the time he wakes
Until he slumbers.

Cal.
How about his dreams?

Arb.
His dreams, his dreams! Is not life all a dream—
This chase of phantoms, and this tug with fate—
As we may find when death awakens us?
Are my slaves ready, armed, and at their posts?
The girl shall yield; or must be made to yield:
This day shall end the matter.

Cal.
I said, and say
Your orders, to the letter, are obeyed.

Arb.
Why do you linger then? It is your charge
To keep your eye upon my Nubians,
And bring them when I call.

Cal.
I thought, perhaps,
You might have something else besides a charge
To give—a credit, say; or, what were better,
Some solid cash, hey!

Arb.
How this avarice
Grows on you, man! And it is hideous,
To see a man whose only thought is gold,
Forever gold! Here, take this bag. [Gives bag from the table]


Cal.
All gold—
I think you said, all gold?

Arb.
Look for yourself. [Calenus counts money]


Cal.
But seventeen pieces. Hum! now had it been
Twenty, to make things even.

Arb.
Miscreant!
Go, ere I brain you.

Cal.
Barely seventeen. [Exit slowly]


Arb.
That knave will quarrel with my patience soon.
His raging maw would bolt a world of gold,
And still be hungry. Fellows of his kind
Cannot be trusted. His fidelity
Is in his pocket, ready to desert
To any rival bidder. Well, my man,
There is a cell, to pocket you alive,
And all your stealing, if you dare to show
Treachery to me. [Re-enter Calenus hastily]

How now?

Cal.
My lord, the girl
Is at the door.

Arb.
Admit her. Hide yourself:
Your grin would breed suspicion in a lamb.

Cal.
Well for the lamb. [Exit]


Arb.
Now to assume the sage. [Seats himself at the table in seeming study]

That footfall and the rustle of that robe
Set my blood bounding. [Enter Ione, escorted by Arbaces' slaves. Exeunt slaves]

Dear Ione, welcome! [Rises]


Ione.
You show scant hospitality, my lord,
Not to receive me in your atrium.

Arb.
That which you seek is here. [Pointing to a large coffer]

I was absorbed
In reading o'er your horoscope.

Ione.
Ha! ha! [Laughing]

What say the riddling stars about a girl
As humble as myself?

Arb.
Nothing but good,
If you but heed the stars' interpreter.

Ione.
But of the letter.

Arb.
[Hands key]
Open for yourself.

Ione.
So then. [Unlocks coffer]
What's here?—Jewels and gold! Ah! yes;
Here is a letter. By your leave, my lord. [Reads]


Arb.
Let me read you, as you peruse the lines.
Distress?—a frown?—what, anger and disgust?
No sign of pleasure! Am I come to this?—
A priest and king of Egypt, of a race
Older than earth's traditions! Upstart Greek,
Those looks shall cost you dearly! [Aside]


Ione.
This is all?

Arb.
All that I know of, and that little all
Seems not to please you.

Ione.
Do you know, Arbaces:
The substance of this letter?

Arb.
Certainly:
Your father read it to me as he wrote.
It was his darling project; planned, he thought,
To be your happiness and mine.

Ione.
You know
It is impossible, and always was,
And always will be. Let me pass. [Going]


Arb.
[Preventing her]
Not yet.
Listen to me. When you were yet a child,
I but a man, your father solemnly
Betrothed us two; as far as then he could,
Joined us as one forever. You have read
His dying testament, confirming that;
And then enjoining you, by all the love
You bear his memory, to obey his will;
And, at a marriageable age, to give
Yourself to me in wedlock.

Ione.
I cannot:
The thought is monstrous.

Arb.
Why?

Ione.
Pray let me go!
There was no moment in my life or yours,
When the mere thought of marriage with yourself
Could have been tolerable to me.

Arb.
[Retaining her]
Alas!
And I have loved you, ah! so tenderly,
Not with a parent's or a tutor's love,
But with the fiery passion of a man
Who saw before him his one hope in you,
And bent his life to compass that. For that
I toiled, I studied, won both wealth and power;
Made man my subject, and the hands of men
My willing instruments; became, Ione,
That which I am, that which you know, I am,
A giant among pigmies. O, I pray you,
Pause ere you put this mighty love aside,
To pick up slighter morsels! You are great;
Your spirit longs for grandeur and for power;
See, I can give them. Think you I abide
In this dull country, rather than the land
Where I am priest and monarch, for aught else
Than to crown you my empress? Let us flee
To the dateless, deathless Egypt; to the realm
That ruled the world ere history began.
Come, come, aboard! My ships await us, love,
Eager to start as I am. Pause, and think:
Take time for thought.

Ione.
I ask for that alone.
Come to my house tomorrow—

Arb.
Ha! ha! ha! [Laughing]

Be sure of this; if you wed me, my own,
You will not wed a fool.

Ione.
How dare you use
A term like that to me?

Arb.
My own you are.
For when I look about upon these walls,
Mute, deaf, impenetrable, I almost think
That you are quite my own. You must decide
This matter ere we part; for, once at large,
You might assume your woman's right to change
Your tender mind. An oath as deep as hell,
As high as Jove's Olympus, must be bound
About your soul before you quit my sight.
What of your father's will?

Ione.
O villain, cease!
Wrong not the dead with falsehood, howsoe'er
You play the tyrant with his helpless child.
That letter is a fraud, from first to last,
As you best know of all men.

Arb.
Grant it so;
Then, of all women, who can better tell
Than you before what sort of man you stand?

Ione.
Arbaces, hear me: would you force my love?—

Arb.
Nay, win it, darling.

Ione.
Mockery of a man,
My senses sicken at your loathsome words,
Call me your slave, your victim; do not dare
Thus to profane the sanctity of love
With foul endearments. Have a care! today
Will not be time's conclusion. I have friends,
Who will exact a reckoning at your hands
For all I suffer now.

Arb.
Within an hour
We shall be sailing on the middle sea
Towards Egypt, my beloved. Once there, where I,
The son of kings, am master of events,
Your friends may rage uncared for.

Ione.
Gracious gods,
Are you responsible for such a man,
Or did the demons form him?

Arb.
Come, aboard!
Go kindly with me, or my slaves shall toss
Your haughty beauty, like a bale of goods,
Into my galley. Come, come! [Seizes her]


Ione.
Pity me!
Pity the child whom once you seemed to love,
Not as a satyr, as a father!

Arb.
No!
You have heaped insult on my love; 'tis now
My turn to answer scornful words with deeds. [She breaks from him and kneels]


Ione.
Pallas Athene, save your helpless child!
Glaucus!—My Glaucus! [Enter Glaucus from behind the statue of Isis]


Glau.
[Drawing]
I am here, beloved!
Call on your gods, Arbaces, for your time
Is dwindled to a span. Have courage, love!
O flower of women, lift your drooping head!
The storm is passed. Behold me at your side.
Now there can be no danger; for the right
Strengthens my arm, and makes my buoyant heart
To dance with joy, that I am here to brave
Nought worse than death in your defense.

Arb.
Vile Greek,
Boast when you see the sun again; not now,
While Hell prepares to swallow you! Begone!
Your sight is odious to me! [Snatches sword from table. They fight; Arbaces is disarmed]

Murderer!—
Ione, spare me!

Ione.
Oh! no blood, no blood!—
Not before me, dear Glaucus!

Glau.
Do I hear?
You said, “dear Glaucus?”

Ione.
Now and ever. Hear
The coward's prayer. Henceforward he can have
No portion in our lives.

Glau.
Go, miscreant!
And pass your days in sorrowing o'er yourself.
A voice within me says I am unwise
To spare a broken serpent; but her voice,
Lifted in supplication, is too sweet
To be resisted. Trickster, solemn knave,
Who make an earthly trade of heavenly things,
Return not to your shallow juggleries
In Isis' house, or I shall let the world
Into your frauds. Go wallow in the Nile,
Whose slime begot you, to make men ashamed
Of you, their likeness. Come, Ione, come! [Going with Ione. As they reach the door, Arbaces sounds a sistrum. His guards drive back Glaucus and Ione from the door. Other guards enter from the side, and surround Arbaces. Enter Calenus]


Arb.
The trap is sprung. Now, insolent, some more
Of your abounding eloquence! Let me have
A little more insufferable advice
About my future life! I wager you,
You cannot tell as much about your own
For the next hour or two.

Glau.
[Apart to Ione]
Be not dismayed!
Yet there is hope, if my prevision hold.
Where, where is Nydia?

Arb.
Seize them! To the ship—
But tenderly, no rudeness—with the girl.
The man I shall provide for. There's a cage,
My Attic linnet, underneath this hall,
Where you may sing your death-song to yourself,
Till voice and life both fail you. Seize on them! [As the guards advance cautiously, dreading Glaucus' sword, Nydia sings without]


Nyd.
[Sings]
The gods are descending in power from the sky;
The darkness is broken, and succor is nigh;
Hell quails at their glance, as their glories increase,
And light bathes the forehead of beautiful Greece. [Enter Nydia]


Glau.
[Apart to Ione]
At last! Forget not, darling, that you are
Almost my wife: be brave!

Nyd.
What, Glaucus!

Glau.
Here:
Come hither, child! [She approaches, and whispers Glaucus]


Arb.
Why do you pause, my men,
To watch this comedy? Another mouse
Has fallen into the trap, and that is all.
Disarm the Greek! aboard with both the girls!
Athenian fribble, let the latest look
You take of earth, ere you descend forever
Into the darkness of your living tomb,
Be on my triumph! Look! and let that look
Be Hell's affliction to your solitude,
Upon my galleys rocking in the bay;
Ere long to bear me and my lovely bride
Upon our wedding progress. Look your last! [Flings aside the curtains of the great door, and discovers Clodius, Apaecides, Lydon and an array of Gladiators, heavily armed, standing there in silence. Arbaces' guards, who have been advancing on Glaucus, retreat. Arbaces recoils in confusion]


Glau.
[Apart to Arbaces]
Shall it be peace or war? Think, ere you make
Your house a shambles.

Apae.
[Advancing]
Sister, you are safe.

Ione.
Safe evermore. For am I not the prize
And willing trophy of that brave man's sword?

Glau.
Ione, make me not insane with joy;
Oh, make me not even grateful to the wretch
Who brought me such a fortune.

Clod.
[Advancing]
Glaucus, pray,
What is the meaning of this summons?

Glau.
[Apart to him and Apaecides]
Friends,
I beg your silence. You shall hear anon.
Arbaces had prepared a spectacle
Of Isis, to amuse himself and us;
And so I summoned you for company.
Somehow, the spectacle has failed to work
Indeed he seems to be, unwillingly,
The only spectacle within our view,
Save that which you present him.

Cal.
[Apart to Arbaces]
So, my lord,
The game is up.

Arb.
[Apart to him]
Not for another set:
Not while they leave me life. Be silent, man!
Today is theirs; tomorrow may be mine.

ACT IV.

Scene: Before the house of Isis. A colossal statue of the goddess seen within. On the right, the entrance to the palace of Arbaces. On the left, the entrance to the theater. Time, before sunset. As the scene darkens, the eyes of the statue of Isis are illumined. The stage is filled with people who have just left, while others are leaving, the theater. Enter from the theater Burbo and Stratonice.
Bur.
Oh, such a lion! Wife, in all your life,
Did you e'er see a beast like that?

Stra.
Yes, dunce,
A bigger.

Bur.
When?

Stra.
Why, when I first saw you.

Bur.
Ha! ha! you always have your little joke.

1st Cit.
What of the lion, Burbo:

Bur.
We just saw,
My wife and I, by favor of a friend,
Who tends the beasts—

Stra.
Well, if my wife and I
Saw such a sight, let that one tell of it
Who saw not double. He came in today—

Bur.
Brought here by Pansa.—

Stra.
Fresh from Africa—

Bur.
Wild as a hawk—

Stra.
A savage, brave young beast—

Bur.
'Twould make your hair stir but to hear him growl—

Stra.
Growl! Will you still be braying, ass? He roars
Like double thunder.—

Bur.
Tears the iron bars—

Stra.
Rolls, like a kitten, o'er and o'er again.
With fury, till his cage rocks.—

Bur.
Just to stand
With no more than those rattling bars between
Him and yourself.—

Stra.
Made Burbo green with fear:
You shameless coward!—

Bur.
Gods! his dreadful tail.
He thrashed the floor with that same iron tail—

Stra.
Tail, dummy! Had you seen his ivory teeth,
As keen lancets—

Bur.
And his crooked claws,
Ripping the boards. What chance would a man stand
Before the brute?

Stra.
And there they'll keep him shut,
In that vile cage, until he'll grow as weak
And worthless as my husband.

1st Cit.
What a shame!
Will not one fight him?

Bur.
Were I young again—

Stra.
You'd show that lion such a pair of heels,
That he would take you for an antelope,
There is no criminal to feed his maw.

Bur.
Now, what a godsend were a murderer!
To let us see the lion do his work
At crunching bones. By Pollux! there's no man
Could front him: not a gladiator; no,
Not Lydon even.

Stra.
Lydon; I would like
To see some nobleman—your Glaucus, hey?—
That man with thews like Hercules;—if he
And that young beast together were let loose
In the arena, you would see some sport—
Something you would remember. It would be
Quite even betting too. If Glaucus had
Sign of weapon, I would lay my purse
On the Athenian against Africa.

Bur.
I tell you what were funny; if young Dudus
Should have the courage with her slippery hair
To strangle any girl of his tonight.
By Jove! to see the lion mouth him!

Stra.
Pshaw!
That beast would take him like a pill. One gulp,
And all were over. No, I want to see
A fair, square fight; a long one too. [A rumbling sound is heard]


Bur.
There, there!
Do you not feel that?

Stra.
What, that little shake?

Bur.
It makes me seasick.

Stra.
You are given to qualms,
You bearded woman! 'Twould be well, I think,
If you and I should interchange our garments,
To save the family from shame. You flinch
At every earthquake. Pigeon, use your wings
When earth has colics.

Bur.
If I only had
The wings to use! I do not like the day:
This hot dull sun, this smoky air, this smell
Of burning sulphur. Ever since I rose,
I have been coughing at that smell.

Stra.
Pish! pish!
How will you do when you must breath those fumes
Through all eternity? Come home, you sheep! [Exeunt]


Bur.
Look, look! they come. [Enter Lydon, bearing a palm branch, and the other Gladiators]


Stra.
Lydon, again! That fellow makes me tired.
Hail, man of many palms! I heard you said,
After your daddy gained his liberty
You'd leave off fighting.

Lyd.
And so I say still:
But I am bound to fight this meeting through
By oath to Pansa.

Stra.
If you live so long.
They say the Praetor rages at the part
You and your fellows took upon yourselves,
Last night, at Arbaces' house. Hey, boy,
What if you all were scourged for that?

Lyd.
'Twere better.
That when my father bore the scourge for nothing.
From that Lord Glaucus freed him. Let them whip
This back into a jelly. I shall smile,
Just as I would upon the bloody cross,
To know I died for Glaucus.

Stra.
Brave old boy!
Give me your fist; and when you want a hand,
To help you at your mischief, call on me.
This arm is not so weakened—Feel my arm:
Some muscle left yet, hey?—This arm, one time,
Could wield the trident, cast the fatal net,
And these old legs could hurry round the ring,
In such a manner as would make them stare
In these decaying days.

Lyd.
No doubt of it:
For all the giants lived before our time.

Stra.
Lydon, see here.

Bur.
What, what?

Stra.
Does Lydon sound
Like Burbo? man like monkey? I would speak
With Lydon, jackass.

Lyd.
Well, well.

Stra.
Have a care
Of that Egyptian, for yourself, as well
As for Lord Glaucus. If I know the man,
Arbaces' vengeance has a memory
As long as is Hell's highway. There will be
A reckoning for last night's affair; and then,
Let me not find my warning was forgotten.
Do you see Glaucus ever?

Lyd.
But I may.

Stra.
Tell him this, and make him credit you:
Arbaces' man, Calenus, can be bought—
Bought for a spy, or any dirty use
That gold e'er purchased. Lydon, by the gods,
If you neglect my words, let Glaucus' blood
Be on your head! If you would keep him safe,
Watch! watch Arbaces.

Lyd.
Dear old girl, your words
Are treasured in my heart. I understand
Their weight too, trust me.

Stra.
Hist, hist! Let's begone. [Exeunt severally. Enter Arbaces attended]


Arb.
Why am I sighing for almighty power,
While every sigh but proves me more a man?—
A human thing, who, to obtain an end,
Must scheme among the other schemers, weak
With all their weakness, not a jot more sure
To rule the future than the savage brute
That takes his foeman promptly by the throat,
And sucks the life-blood from his veins. They call
Me here a wizard; would to Heaven, I were!
That I might spread a glamour o'er the land,
To witch Ione's stubborn heart, and drain
The haughty strength with which that impious Greek
Confronts me, and you, Isis: Will you not
Avenge yourself, O goddess? Dreams, dreams, dreams!
From which I waken, a mere man again,
In conscious impotence—a hypocrite
Who fain would take the desperate chances, born
Of gods in which I have no real belief.
The weak are ever superstitious. I
Call for a power that is not in myself,
And play at self-deception. Isis, speak!
Is what we call religion a trick,
Whereby the cunning rule the imbecile?
And is that deeper faith, our sages hold,
In immortality a product vain
Of human vanity? No answer comes:
The silence seems to mock me. Dreadful Sphinx,
Foreboding future, mother of despair,
Answer your royal priest, if gods have ears—
Yes, if you have a being, and are not,
Like all things earthly, but an empty dream! [Enter the Praetor and Guards]


Prae.
Musing, my prince!

Arb.
Hail, my unfailing friend!
This hour is meditation's. As the eye
Watches the sun descending, and the shades
Of evening lengthen, then the heart of man
Seems to go down, and shadows grow about
The central light within our moody breasts:
Life seems most burdensome; and all the sills
That haunt our thoughts, in one stupendous cloud
Settle upon our thoughts. The shackled prisoner
Looks through his walls into the world beyond,
And at the vision groans. The exile's heart
Is tortured with the sweets of home; the lover
Sighs for his absent mistress; once again
The mourner freshly feels the sting of death;
The baffled hopes of youth like spectres rise,
And will not to their ancient graves again;
This heavenly wanderer, which we call the soul,
Yearns in its doleful place of banishment
For its lost birthright, and the broken bond
Aches at its fracture like a cruel wound.
Evening is melancholy's playtime.

Prae.
Yes;
And Prince Arbaces' too. What thing has dashed
Your spirit thus?

Arb.
All things.

Prae.
And this report,
Now flying through the town, of something done
Of violence and insult at your house
By that Athenian ruffian;—what of that?—
Backed by a gang of slaves. Do they forget
The lictors' rods? Or does Lord Glaucus know
What it will be to him, should he presume
To outrage Roman law, while I am judge?

Arb.
That was drunken riot, nothing more.
Glaucus had supped too well; and in his zeal
Blinded with wine and passion, he mistook
My harmless purpose for I know not what.
Pray pass it over, as I shall; for fear
Lest, should his fault be tossed from tongue to tongue,
It brings a scandal on a lady's name,
Whose fame is dear to me.

Prae.
You show in this
Noble forebearance, like yourself. However,
Remember should he practise pranks like these,
I stand prepared to punish him.

Arb.
Thanks, thanks!
Fitter occasion may arise; and then—

Prae.
Not all his wealth, nor all the vulgar howl
Of his dear mob shall save him.

Arb.
[Aside]
Excellent!
Hope smiles again.

Prae.
Farewell!

Arb.
Farewell!

Prae.
Observe
That Attic madcap strictly. [Exit with train]


Arb.
Never fear;
My eyes were given me for no other use. [Enter Apaecides hastily, Calenus restraining him]

Apaecides!

Apae.
Dare not pronounce my name.
Monster of falsehood, do you still pollute
This city with your presence? Recollect
Your meditated crime, and hide yourself
From man and Heaven, till, serpent-like, you crawl
Back to your native den!

Arb.
Misguided youth,
I pity you, and spare you.

Apae.
Spare me, slave!
It were blaspheming Heaven for me to spare
You when I find you in the haunts of men,
Lest the unwary suffer. [Rushes at Arbaces. Calenus and slaves interpose]


Arb.
There, poor boy,
You see your weakness. Pray misjudge me not!
Surely your father's will has some respect
Of you, although your sister disobey.

Apae.
Though you might counterfeit his hand and seal,
You could not so pervert our faith in him,
That it did not disown and contradict
Your written fraud. O sacrilegious wretch,
To put your lies into a dead man's mouth,
To bring dishonor on his memory,
To turn his children's hearts against the man
To whom they owe all love, and reverence!
That was the risk you made us undergo,
Impious impostor; but those twins of Heaven,
Immortal truth and love, have but one pair
Of searching eyes, to baffle evil with,
And they are on you. Go!

Arb.
Romantic boy,
You are too simple for this common world.
May time call wisdom for you! [Going. Enter Glaucus, Clodius, Dudus and train, obstructing Arbaces' train]

Move!

Cal.
My lord—

Arb.
Who bars the way?

Cal.
Lord Glaucus.

Arb.
Use your staves!
Now, by the head of Isis— [Draws]


Glau.
Who demands
The way of me? Arbaces? Men, stand firm!
I am not used to yield a freeman's right
To an unpunished criminal. Who stirs! [He and Clodius draw]

Walks on the point of my forbidding sword.
Is it with pomp and impudence like this
You quit the scene of your misdeeds? Nay, glide,
Cat-like and stealthy, from our loathing sight,
Lest justice overtake you, ere you freight
Your gallies with your guilt.

Arb.
I ask no leave
To go and come, to strike or pitch my tent,
Of you, Athenian braggart!

Apae.
Hold his men
Back for a moment, till I settle this,
And all our wrongs together. 'Tis a chance
I seek and long for.

Glau.
Nay, Apaecides.
'Twas he began the outrage; let him on,
And bide the issue of his violence.

Arb.
Avoid the fellow, as you would evade
Unsavory filth. [To his train]


Glau.
Yes, follow your wise nose:
It is a prudent leader for a heart
As delicate as yours. [His followers laugh]


Arb.
You act today
As though Time's hand had dropped his calendar.
Think of tomorrow; if you will not now,
Remember, when it comes, what I have said. [Leads his train around that of Glaucus and exit]


Glau.
Oh, dear tomorrow, how should I forget,
Even at a villain's prompting, that the day
Will usher in my boundless happiness?—
Will merge in all two lives that yearn to meet,
Like affluent streams, that henceforth are but one,
Like kindred hands that join in one salute,
Like meeting lips that form a single kiss!
Not in division, but in unity,
All nature lives. I thank the gracious gods
That rapt our kindred souls as near to Heaven
As mortals may aspire, and suffered us
To join and swell their choral harmony!

Clod.
My Glaucus, O my Glaucus, are you he
With whom I feasted yesterday, on food
Cooked in a kitchen, washed with earth-born wine—
You on whose rapturous lips now overrun
The nectar and ambrosia of the gods?

Apae.
Or are you he, the staid philosopher,
Who frowned o'er Plato, in a knot of thought;
While I stood by, to hear your magic tongue
Make all things clear, as though the puzzling scroll
Were written with a sunbeam?

Dud.
Are you he
That made this life a burden to yourself,
That we, your friends, might go the lighter?—You
Who sighed o'er everything the world contained;
Grew sick at pain or pleasure, both alike?
Inveighed against the rose's musky smell,
The glaring whiteness of the lily's head,
The noise of music, and the travesty
Art made of nature—nature, in herself
Being by no means perfect? You who held
Of more account a ribbon on your robe
Than all the foreign policy of Rome?
Oh, I admired that Glaucus; but I fear
That you are spoiled forever—

Glau.
Are you done?
Is this the penance one must undergo
For showing his true nature? Be it so;
For I am unconverted. As a proof,
I bid you to the final sacrifice
Tomorrow morning. You shall see me go
As blindly as the dedicated ox
Goes to the altar and the priestly knife. [Music without]

Hark, hark! the Heavens are bowing down to earth.
I know that strain, and why it makes the wind
Pause but to hear it.

Clod.
There is wind enough
To blow us hence. Come, gentlemen, the gods
Admit no mortals to their councils. Yes;
We will be there betimes, to see the ox
Go to the slaughter. [Exit with Apaecides and Dudus, laughing. Enter Ione with attendants and a sacrificial train]


Glau.
Hail, my dearest!

Ione.
Glaucus!

Glau.
Be not embarrassed. It is right, my love,
That you should offer the protecting gods
Your modest maiden sacrifice. We owe
More to their grace than human vanity
Could challenge for itself.

Ione.
Yes, yes; but—but—
Ah, Glaucus, when a woman gives herself
To any man, as I am given to you,
Must he be ever in the way? I hoped
To steal to Heré's temple unobserved,
At least by you; and, lo, not half way there,
You start up to confront me, and confuse
My poor devotions; and—and—

Glau.
You designed
To pass unnoticed; so your cunning chose
The Street of Fortune, as a private route;
Ear-catching music, and a fluttering train
Of winning girls, begarlanded and decked
With flying ribbons; all the pomp and stir
Of coming sacrifice, in which to hide,
At least from me, your prudish little self!
You are a very woman.

Ione.
Were I not,
How much would Glaucus love me?

Glau.
Perfect maid,
I trifle with my happiness. So great
It seems, and so transfigured is the world
To something that I never knew before;
So filled with light and sweetness, that my spirit
Seems soaring, at a dizzy heavenly height,
On unaccustomed wings. To look below
Awes me, and backward scares the venturous blood
Into its citadel. I dare not think
The mortal thoughts, that ever, prophet-like,
Cry woe, woe, woe! to earthly happiness.
And I, I am too happy for the jealous gods
To tolerate my more than mortal state
Without rebuke. This boding shadow, love,
Cast by the brightness of my dazzling joy,
Will follow me until I clasp you close
Against my heart, and know that fate has made
Our lot secure in making you my wife.

Ione.
Glaucus, you dream of good and ill alike,
From the same inspiration. Let my dreams
Be offsets to your own. I only see
Visions of bliss before us. Trust the gods;
For we are in their hands, for joy or grief,
Whether we trust or not. Deserve their grace,
And that may better fortune.

Glau.
Yes, and they
Who spread this glorious nature at their feet,
For their enduring joy, must also show
A new delight in their immortal eyes
When they survey a sight as beautiful,
As pure, as holy as our love. The gods
Be with you, darling, at your sacrifice!
Sound pipe and tabor, fling your streamers out,
Set all your maids to laughing, take the street
Like an imperial triumph, and oncemore
Endeavor thus to steal, all unobserved,
To Heré's temple!

Ione.
Glaucus, it is sad
To see how foolish a wise man may be!

Glau.
Oh, look for nothing but the silliest joy
From me, till wedlock make me serious,
Priestess of wisdom!

Ione.
Madcap, let me go!
Shall the gods wait to see your folly out?
Well, if you will, here in the public street,
Insensible to shame!—I am too pressed
For time, to palter with you.

Glau.
Nay, my love!
Here in the privacy of your parade. [Kisses her]


Ione.
Then here began my sacrifice; alas!
And somewhat prematurely. [Exit with her train]


Glau.
O beloved,
Fairest and best, passion and perfect rest,
Fire and assuaging dew, consummate marvel
Of sweetest contraries!—how like a dove,
That will not quit its mate, my fluttering heart
Follows your flight with spiritual gaze,
Broods o'er your tender head with outspread wings.
By Heaven commissioned! [Enter Nydia]

Nydia!

Nyd.
My lord!

Glau.
You are not with your mistress.

Nyd.
Not today.

Glau.
Why then?

Nyd.
I could not—

Glau.
Could not!

Nyd.
Would not—

Glau.
Would not!
And at a time so solemn in her life?

Nyd.
There may be times as solemn in the lives
Of others. For my part, I trouble Heaven
With my thanksgiving at last night's escape:
That is forever in my mind. My brain
Refuses to put by the hideous thought
Of that which might have been to you, had fate
Given to your foe the upper hand. My lord,
You do not know how capable of crime—
Of pitiless, remorseless, deadly crime,
Is the dark spirit of Arbaces. Now,
Even now, while all things look so fatal yet.
Watch, while that demon lives.

Glau.
Nay, Nydia,
Whatever be his malice, you o'er-rate
His power to do me harm.

Nyd.
Then I must watch,
Watch without eyes: my scanty senses must
Perform the duty that you set at naught.

Glau.
I shall not slumber. But bethink you, child,
With so much happiness before my eyes,
With Heaven thus beckoning from its open doors,
How shall I turn my raptured gaze aside,
To peer into that Hell you shudder at?

Nyd.
Happy! are you so happy?

Glau.
Can you ask?

Nyd.
Ah! then, 'tis not for all, this happiness.
Thank Heaven that gave it to you: 'Tis so far,
So very far above the common lot.
Nor does it always come at love's command:
Sweet though his gifts be to the fortunate,
They seem like curses of the angry gods,
Like the hot arrows of Hyperion's wrath,
When poured into a heart that cannot share
Its blessings with another, love for love.

Glau.
These are strange thoughts to fill your youthful brain:
Whence were they gathered?

Nyd.
From the tree of life.
We who pass under, shake its fatal fruit,
Ripe or rotten, at our startled feet.
A child may do that. Once I knew a maid,
Humble as I am, and she loved a king—
Think of the fool, she loved a very king!—
Oh, not a king with sceptre, crown and throne,
The common frippery of sham royalty;
But a real king, by nature bred and crowned,
And so acknowledged by a subject world.

Glau.
She flew too high.

Nyd.
But why has love his wings,
Unless to soar with? Ah! my lord, you talk
Like all the world; but not like Glaucus.

Glau.
True.
But of the maiden?

Nyd.
I forgot the girl,
Lost in the splendor of the man she loved.
Her passion was the secret of her breast:
She dared not tell it to an earthly thing,
Lest gossip echo, from her hollow cave,
Should spread her story to the jeering land.
Oh, no, she whispered to the mystic skies,
Distant and voiceless—to her mother's soul,
Silent as death, that stood between their lives—
The bitter story which she knew too well.
Nothing was pitiful. The raging clouds,
With thunder upon thunder, shouted, fool!
Her mother's voice, as fine and thin as songs
Sung to an ailing infant, murmured, fool!
And her own heart—there was the hopeless pang—
Muttered forever, fool, and fool, and fool!

Glau.
What was her fate?

Nyd.
What is the fate of all,
Happy or wretched, who begin to die
As soon as they begin to live? the grave
But hiding up the tragedy of life,
Whose course is only dying. Let her nurse
The death within her as a blessed thing,
The only product of her barren love,
And thank the gods for that one mercy!

Glau.
Child,
Can I do aught to soothe her sorrow?

Nyd.
You!
You least of all men. Hurry to the one
You'll make your bride tomorrow. That way lies
Your duty. Let the maiden bide the fate
You cannot alter. Since I knew, and tried,
Vainly, to rock her history to sleep
Within the cradle of my heart, all love—
Save such as cursed her with its wretchedness—
Seems make-believe and pastime; merry sport
Of triflers, fooling with a deadly thing.
Oh! and its noise of selfish happiness
Drives through me like a weapon.

Glau.
Nydia!
You think too much, and feel too bitterly,
For one so youthful. There's a joy of youth
In mere existence. Nourish that delight:
It comes but once.

Nyd.
To me it never came.
What can I do in darkness, in this house
All windowless, but think, till gracious death
May give me back my vision? Go, my lord,
Go to the pageant. It is glorious,
The people tell me, to behold the things
I hear and touch. 'Tis all a mystery
To me. I would that I could understand
What sight is like.

Glau.
Hereafter you may know,
If the gods love the pure and beautiful. [Exit]


Nyd.
O Heaven, O Mother, did you hear? He called
Me pure and beautiful! O abject shame!
Called me, whose heart is eaten through and through
With guilty love, with sin, almost with crime;
Whose wicked soul is tempted, hour by hour,
To do the things, I should not dare to dream.
Pure, beautiful Avenging Nemesis,
Count not his error as my sin! Alas!
How little do we know each others' hearts,
Though we were twinned together! Hark, I hear
Calenus' step, that shuffling, stealthy tread.
The kind old miser; often has he saved
Poor me from insult, when the riot raged,
High as the vault of hell, in yonder house.
Well, I must rest. The spirit has o'erworn
Its dusty covering. One day it will fall
A crumbling ruin: then the long, long rest. [Seats herself. Enter Calenus]


Cal.
A dismal place. What demon brought me here?
Hello, dame Isis! blinking with your eyes:
But somewhat dimly. I must trim your lamps,
And freshen up your eyesight. No one here?
Yes; who is that? But Nydia. Could she see,
She'd seek a place more cheerful for repose.
Master Calenus, just a word with you.
Come here, a moment. Now, in confidence,
I have a word or two to say to you.
You wretched pauper, do you know, I fear
That you will run your gullet in a noose,
If you keep backing up Arbaces' luck.
And then that dream, that nasty dream, thrice dreamt,
Of drowning in a flood of liquid gold,
While fierce Arbaces, scowling o'er the tide,
Pelted my head with coins and ingots. Sure
That dream meant something. Yes, it meant just this—
For, Isis, as you know, I am skilled in dreams—
It meant you'd better shun the company
And dangerous business of your present lord.
His star is waning. Let me see, by Jove,
And Glaucus' is ascending. It was so
At their last bout. If I could hitch myself
Close to this Glaucus and his wealth, perhaps
Things would look brighter for me; much more safe,
Without a question. Ah! but how, but how?
No one will trust you, my Calenus, now,
Since your long service with Arbaces. Right!
By Jove, I would not trust you. Isis, there!
Old lady, give me but a happy thought,
And I will work you and your oracles,
So that you'll take this wondering town by storm.

Nyd.
[Sings]
What keener woe than to behold above her
The stormy terrors of a darkening sky!
No heart to shield her, and no heart to love her,
The light of hope bedimmed within her eye:
What can she do but die, but die?
What keener woe!

Cal.
Nydia, what are singing in the dark? [She advances]

Gods! child you make me creep. “What can she do
But die, but die?” A thousand other things.
Dying's the last thing she should think about:
Tell your friend that. Hey, now, my singing bird,
Is her nest soft in rich Ione's house?
I always thought some good would come to you.

Nyd.
How wise you are for others; not for yourself!

Cal.
How so?

Nyd.
In hanging to Arbaces' skirts.
While he walks down to Hades.

Cal.
Right, quite right!
You echo warnings stirring in my brain.
Does it e'er happen to you pretty one,
To talk with Glaucus?

Nyd.
Rarely.

Cal.
But sometimes?

Nyd.
Yes; when I will. He is all courtesy.
A heart so gentle that he would alight,
As quick as Hermes, from his chariot,
To ease the sorrows of a dying dog.
Who may not speak with Glaucus, who has need
Of any service he can do to man?

Cal.
Tut, tut! you talk heroics. He's a Greek:
Shrewd therefore—not a fool, by any means!

Nyd.
Not unless Pallas is.

Cal.
High! there you go!
Stick to this world; talk business; that's my aim.
Is Glaucus rich?

Nyd.
As Midas: at his touch
Earth turns to gold.—

Cal.
Oh! fiddle, faddle, girl!
Give up your raptures. What you said just now,
About Arbaces, lingers in my head.

Nyd.
Well, what of him?

Cal.
That man is dangerous.

Nyd.
That I well know.

Cal.
Yes, and his purposes
Make him as dangerous to friends as foes.—
A little more so, if a man may judge
By recent happenings. He is rich, 'tis true;
But what of that? He's meaner than—than—than—
Hey, now, bring in your gods and goddesses!

Nyd.
I would not wrong them by the likeness.

Cal.
Good,
You pious child! Can you keep secrets, girl?

Nyd.
I carry one that burns me, like a coal
Heated in hell, and I shall carry it
Until the cold grave quench it.

Cal.
Promise me,
If nothing come of what I say to you,
If we make no agreement, ere we part,
Or if you cannot win your perfect lord
To share our compact, you will lay my words
Beside that coal which worries you so much.
Hey, will you swear it?

Nyd.
[Aside]
If I catch his drift,
The man is ripe to play Arbaces false;
And that, well covered, may assure my lord
Freedom from peril. [Aloud]
Yes, I swear.

Cal.
By what?
Your gods and goddesses the poets made.
As for my lady Isis—pshaw! I know
Too much about her, to confide an oath
To her loose keeping. Ah! I have it now: [Shows a coin]

Swear on this aureas, on this trusty gold—
O you true goddess, let me kiss your face!— [Kisses it]

That you will keep my counsel.

Nyd.
So I swear.

Cal.
Will you not kiss the image? No? Well, there,
Go back into your temple. [Pockets the coin]


Nyd.
Now speak out.

Cal.
You know what was Arbaces' plan, that failed
Last night, perhaps?

Nyd.
I guess it.

Cal.
'Twas to take
Lady Ione hence by force, and wed
Her and her fortune when his galleys reached
His land of Egypt. That design is yet
Hot in his mind. He watches for the chance
To make that project a success.

Nyd.
Ye gods,
Must this poor frailty throbbing in my breast
Be thus forever tempted? Fool, O fool!
Would her destruction bring poor humble me
Nearer to him? No; further would I fall.
His frantic wrath would be a wall of stone
Between him and all other things. Or grief,
A grief like mine, would kill him inch by inch.
Could I see that and live? Gods, give me strength,
Me, his bought slave, to serve him to the end;
And see within my mother's shining face
My hard reward at last. [Aside]


Cal.
Well, little sphinx,
What are you mumbling to yourself?

Nyd.
Go on.
A blast from hell kindled my coal again:
I shall be patient now.

Cal.
But can you be
Trusted with more?

Nyd.
You know me. Did I break
The oath Arbaces forced from me?

Cal.
Not yet;—
I am breaking mine all into little bits;—
And who can tell—Well, I am in for it.
There's peril for me either way; and this
Seems least, most hopeful.

Nyd.
For yourself?

Cal.
Ay, girl.
Do you suppose I waste my precious time,
In taking care of other people? No;
All I can do—and that seems hard enough—
Is but to wriggle one Calenus through
This knotted snare. But others hold a place
Of safety or of danger with myself.
For instance: from the pious love he bears
To yonder lady with the beaming eyes—
Gods, she is winking like a sleepy owl!
Shame on you, Isis! keep yourself awake,
And help the fortunes of your faithful priest!
Well, for the love Arbaces bears to her,
He has passed the sentence on Apaecides;
Doomed him to death for treachery to her,
And seeks occasion now to murder him.

Nyd.
Ha!

Cal.
There is something, is it not? By Jove,
'Tis useful information.—Wink, wink, wink!
What, are you going blind, you jade?

Nyd.
You know,
I am quite blind.

Cal.
I did not speak of you.
That blinking Isis makes me nervous. Well,
If he would murder young Apaecides,
To satisfy his hot religious zeal—
Ho! ho! religion and Arbaces mix
Like oil and water. [Laughing]
If he'd take that life,
But for his conscience-sake, what will he do
To Glaucus? Tell me that. He hates your lord—
Just as I hate those sleepy, ribald priests
That are neglecting my poor Isis' eyes.
I'll swing you for it, when I get to you!
What do you say to that, my Nydia?

Nyd.
It is most grave. But what do you propose?

Cal.
This, if the service can be made to pay,
I propose to attach myself at once
To Glaucus; and to do the ticklish work
He cannot do without me, if he would,
In keeping him advised of every plan
Arbaces forms; helping to thwart his plots.
To save two lives, prevent your lady's theft,
Et cetera; and, in the end, to deal
The monster out full justice. Do you see?
Your poor Calenus will have work enough,
Meriting handsome wages.

Nyd.
If you do
But half you promise, you may swim in gold.

Cal.
“May swim in gold!” there is my dream again!
I cannot fail you; for my treachery
Would catch me in the outcome. Then, reflect,
I cannot harm you, if I do no good.
Keep your own councils, tell me nought; but use
My information as you please. Besides,
Nothing for nothing is a golden rule.

Nyd.
Calenus, I accept you.

Cal.
Yes, my child,
That's very well; but what do you suppose—
Oh! not to haggle, not for a mere coin—
What do you think, in gross, the pay will be?

Nyd.
More than you dream of.

Cal.
Nay, my dreams, sometimes,
Go very far into the fattest purse.

Nyd.
Trust me for that.

Cal.
I do, as you trust me.
Now Nydia, little mouse, you know that house
Better than I do; or as well, at least.
You know the danger of this work of mine;
You know Arbaces: Well, if, some bright day,
Your poor Calenus suddenly should seem
To quit the world, no warning given to you—
Where would you seek him? what would you suppose?

Nyd.
Nay, I know not.

Cal.
Dear innocent, I do.
You must suppose Arbaces has found out
Clumsy Calenus, and has stuffed your friend
Into that solid cell, beneath the hall,
With nothing to console his leisure time,
While he is slowly starving, but the thought
Of what a mighty fool he made himself
In reckoning without his host—the man
Who gives him lodging, free of any charge:
Remember that.

Nyd.
Grim jesting.

Cal.
Jesting, girl!
It may be truth tomorrow. Look you, now:
Should this thing happen, you must get me out,
By hook or crook, by sleight or force; so I
May tell my story in a court of law.
You know the cell?

Nyd.
By your description, yes.

Cal.
The door to it is hidden in the base
Of Isis' image, in the gallery.
That you must force. Take men enough with you
To overpower resistance: such a gang
As followed you last night. Oh, mighty gold!
What else, by chink and twinkle, could have called
That little army up so suddenly?

Nyd.
Calenus, he is coming.

Cal.
Who?

Nyd.
Arbaces:
I know his step.

Cal.
Mole-ears, your hearing shames
The eyes of Argus. Fly! [Exit Nydia swiftly]
So that is done,
And I feel easier, less inclined to muse
Or how it feels to decorate a cross,
Or to be pinched between a lion's jaws,
To please admiring friends. [Enter Arbaces]


Arb.
It must be done
Tonight, this very night. The boy must die;
And ere the morning, ere she hear of it,
Ione must be safe aboard with me,
With leagues of water 'twixt this town and us.
As for the Greek, why, let him live to feel
My thorough vengeance in his misery.—
Who's there?

Cal.
Calenus.

Arb.
It grows dark apace.
I did not know you in the shadow there.

Cal.
[Aside]
I wonder if he knows me in the light?

Arb.
What do you here?

Cal.
I must be somewhere—here,
Or somewhere else. I cannot make myself
Invisible, to please you.

Arb.
[Aside]
So, my man!
There is something new within that brain of yours:
A tone of falsehood in your very voice.
The slave grows insubordinate perhaps.
You must be looked to.

Cal.
[Aside]
Now what brought him out
Tonight, and unattended? I shall watch
Your goings and your comings for a while.

Arb.
You are moody.

Cal.
I? but quiet. When I'm still,
Be sure that I have nothing much to say.

Arb.
What is the matter?

Cal.
Curse this thankless world!
Here, I've been working like a gang of slaves,
Year in year out, for other people's good—
And I have done a turn of work for Heaven,
For Isis too; and what is my reward?—
More work, and harder, and more perilous.
And, by and by, you'll leave me in the lurch,
In the law's grip, while you are sailing off,
Secure and happy, with your pretty bride.
That's fine for you; but as for me—My lord,
What shall I do, after the bubble bursts,
And Isis is a by-word? She will be,
As surely as Apaecides reveal
The temple's secrets.

Arb.
He will say no more
After tonight, and that will seem to be
The judgment of the goddess to the world.
Go, get you in.

Cal.
Look at that statue's eyes:
I swear, they are disgraceful. We are out
Of naphtha for the lamps; and, meanwhile, she
Blinks in that owlish manner, poor old girl!

Arb.
Pooh! here is money for your lamps. [Gives money]


Cal.
Not much:
Enough, mayhap, to serve a month or two. [Goes into the temple and watches Arbaces from behind a column]


Arb.
That fellow is past service, and begins
To be untrustworthy. It matters not:
I shall not need him shortly. Till we part,
Let him hold closely to his shaking faith!
Or woe betide his treachery! [Enter Apaecides. Arbaces, observing him, walks up]


Apae.
How dark
The night grows suddenly! A sympathy
With gloom has struck my spirit; for I feel
As though the hand of an impending doom
Hangs o'er my head, and only hesitates
How soon to fall. Where tarries Glaucus? He
Promised to meet me on the way, as soon
As he had seen the sacrificial rites
Duly performed. Come, Glaucus; for I need
Your sunny smile, to light my moody heart.
I will walk further on. Ha! who goes there?

Arb.
Apaecides.

Apae.
Bold villain! must it be
That every turn I take still leads to you?
Away! avoid me! if you hold your life
Worth the precaution that will save it.

Arb.
Ah!
How kindlier times escape a memory
As blind with rage as yours! Look back, my son,
Upon the guardian of your youth, the man
Who loved you as a father, and displayed
That love in every action.

Apae.
Whining hound,
What, will you cower, because you have been cuffed?
Out of my way! My fingers clench and burn
To do you justice here, before that block
You call a goddess.

Arb.
Isis, hear him not!
Spare him for me, your faithful worshiper!

Apae.
Prodigious hypocrite, embodied lie,
Base counterfeiter of the coin of Heaven.
Who are so false that one can neither trust
Your seeming virtues nor your vices. Faugh!
My stomach sickens at the sight of you:
And at your prayers, to any power above
That holds mankind responsible, my skin
Creeps with sheer horror. Bide another day
Here, in Pompeii, with your impious frauds—
Your Isis and your oracles, with your own
Sham piety, you shameless mountebank—
And I will make your gods, your rites and you
The jeer and by-word of the market place!

Arb.
Demented atheist! [Stabs him suddenly]
Take that, and that!
O Isis, to your earthly sovereignty—
You know with what regret—I offer up
My erring son; and may his death atone
For his transgressions!

Apae.
Vile assassin, hark!
When the stone falls, between the blow and death,
Think of this deed, and may its memory
Be your first pang of hell! Oh!—Oh! [Dies]


Arb.
I struck
Too rashly; but the torrent of my rage
Swept of my judgment. [Calenus advances slowly]

Back! [Draws]
Another step
Is death to one of us.

Cal.
Um!

Arb.
Only you?
Calenus, quick; we must be rid of this.

Cal.
Ay, if you could. This act will last awhile,
And draw its consequences after it.

Arb.
You moralizing fool! the act is done!
We must bestow the body somewhere.

Cal.
Where?

Arb.
You empty echo! are your wits astray?
Lend me a hand, to bear this lump of clay
Into the temple. You can throw the corpse
Into the pit, among the bones and dregs
Of other sacrifices. Come, at once!

Cal.
Oh, mercy, how he bleeds!

Arb.
Come, fellow, come!

Cal.
I am no fellow for a murderer.
I saw it all.

Arb.
Ha!

Cal.
Yes; I will not put
My little finger into this affair.
Fate sees the end. I cannot.

Arb.
Are you mad?
You shall have gold enough to satisfy
Even your avarice.

Cal.
Gold, without my life,
Might be a comfort to my heirs. To me—

Arb.
Treacherous villain! what, will you betray
Your master?

Cal.
Um! I know not what I'll do—

Arb.
I know as well. Within there! [Seizes Calenus. Enter slaves from Arbaces' house]
In with him! [Slaves seize Calenus]


Cal.
Help!—

Arb.
Silence him. [Slaves throttle Calenus]
Look at this bloody deed,
Done by his hand—the murder of my boy,
My poor, poor boy! O execrable wretch!
Drag him away, and prison him, fast bound,
And gagged to silence, in my study. I
Will deal with him hereafter. On your lives,
Hold him secure; or I will scourge to death
The whole gang of you! [Exeunt slaves with Calenus]

Light begins to break!
The toils are falling from me. I can make
One traitor answer for the other's death.
But, at the trial, what the rogue might say
Would cast suspicion on me. Isis, help!
My mind is in confusion. Curse the boy!
He is more trouble to me dead than he
Was while he lived.

Glau.
[Without]
Apaecides! what, ho!

Arb.
Oh, golden fortune! Isis heard my prayer.
'Tis the Greek's voice. Now let me guide events
To my own ends. The pit is dug: [Retires back]

One careless step is all I need. [Enter Glaucus, looking about him]


Glau.
'Tis strange.
Apaecides, where stray you in the dark?
He promised he would meet me on the way;
And I am almost home, without a glimpse
Or sound of him. Can it have been we passed
Each other in the darkness? [Arbaces, so placed that the body lies between him and Glaucus]


Arb.
Oh!— [Groans]


Glau.
A groan!
Some drunken reveller perchance has fallen
Here by the wayside. Let me give him aid.
Heaven knows, if mortals ever need our aid,
It is when he who stands may help the fallen
To lift the weary burden of his sins.

Arb.
Oh!—Oh!— [Groans]


Glau.
Again! What's here? A prostrate man! [Discovers Apaecides' body]

Apaecides! My brother, why is this?
What is this sticky stuff that covers you?
Blood, blood!—warm blood! Why lie you here? Arouse!
How still he is! Cheer up! There's succor nigh.
Apaecides! oh answer! Help! help! help!

Arb.
Who is it cracks the silent ear of night
With such shrill cry?

Glau.
Look you here!—Oh, look
Upon this piteous sight!—A wounded man—
Murdered perhaps, if murder have the heart
To slay the innocent. Who are you?

Arb.
Arbaces I of Egypt.

Glau.
Of all men,
Even now, the most unwelcome. But, my lord,
Forget our enmity before the claim
Of such a woe. He is not dead, I know.
I heard him groan a moment since. Have you
Skill in such matters?

Arb.
Some. But who is he?

Glau.
Apaecides, your ward.

Arb.
What?

Glau.
Look at him. [Arbaces examines the body]

Oh, see, he bleeds afresh! It cannot be
That he is dead. How shall I bear this news
To poor Ione? Pray what think you?

Arb.
Dead;
But very lately. Ah! incautious boy,
How did you bring this fate upon your head?

Glau.
How does the lamb die by the butcher's hand?
He was the most harmless of all living things.

Arb.
Help! help!—here's murder—help me, citizens! [Calling without. Burbo and Stratonice enter with a crowd of citizens, gladiators, soldiers, etc. from different directions, some with torches]


Bur.
This way the cry was.

Stra.
What is this?

Arb.
A man
Slain in the streets. [Enter Clodius, Sallust, Lydon and Nydia]


Lyd.
Who is he?

Arb.
A young priest
Of Isis' house, Apaecides.

Nyd.
Oh, woe!
Calenus' prophecy is half fulfilled.
I heard the demon's voice a moment since.
Oh! my poor lady! [Exit hastily]


Bur.
But who did this?

Arb.
Who?
Why do you ask? [Retires]


Bur.
That is not far to seek:
Look at his hands and toga, running blood—

Lyd.
You are a liar, scoundrel! [Strikes him]


Clod.
Peace!

1st Cit.
Stand back!
Here is a Senator.

Clod.
Glaucus, my friend,
What means this sight? Why are you here,
Thus stained with blood?

Bur.
Red-handed.

Lyd.
Have a care:
My next blow will be earnest.

Glau.
Clodius,
O tell me it is but a dreadful dream.
My brain is whirling. All that I can see
Is blood, blood, blood; and all that I can hear
Is the shrill shriek from those wan, frozen lips,
That felt so warm a little hour ago. [Enter Ione, Nydia, and a train of maids, servants, etc.

O gods, she comes. Where shall I hide myself?

Ione.
[Falls on his bosom]
Glaucus!

Glau.
Divine forgiveness! Half the fault
Is mine, beloved. I should have guarded him,
Foreseeing danger.

Ione.
Do not blame yourself.
Apaecides?—

Glau.
Is dead! and I should be
The happier with him. Dear, I swore to you
To watch our brother's safety as your own:
And see, look here! here is my broken oath
Bleeding from every wound of his.

Ione.
Alas!
We have but human faculties to serve
Our promises. We are not gods, beloved.

1st Cit.
O lady, quit that man.

Ione.
And wherefore, friend?

1st Cit.
Look at his hands.

Ione.
But that is guiltless blood.
Come, let me kiss them: they are pure as mine. [Kisses his hands]

Rather suspect me of this bloody deed
Than noble Glaucus.

Nyd.
[Aside]
Hear, ye listening gods!
This is a love like mine. [Cries without of, “Way, way!” Then enter the Praetor with lictors bearing torches and guards. Arbaces approaches the Praetor]


Prae.
What mean these cries,
That break the quiet of our sleeping town,
And bare the blade of armed authority? [Approaches the body]

A murdered man! Who is he? [To Arbaces]
Speak, my lord,
If you know aught concerning the affair.

Arb.
I speak reluctantly, because 'tis known
Glaucus and I have been at enmity:
So people say, and so perhaps it is.— [Pauses]


Glau.
Forget all that. I have a vow in Heaven,
Recorded there among its sacred things,
To hunt the murderer of Apaecides
Through land, through flood, through earth or howling sea—
By night and day, wherever he may bide—
Yea, though the gods of darkness shelter him—
And drag him to the cross, the hungry beast,
Or wheresoever the hand of Justice point!

Arb.
Remember this, when you stand face to face
Before the truth.

Prae.
What know you? Let there be
No further interruptions. Speak, my lord!

Arb.
Pray you, excuse me;—I am ill at ease;—
I know not what to say. Indeed, the facts
Are so suspicious, from my point of view,
As I was forced to see them— [Pauses]


Prae.
By the gods,
It seems to me you seek to shield the wretch
Who did this crime. If that be your design,
Look to yourself, ere you be self-condemned
As an accomplice!

Glau.
O my lord, speak out!
You one time called this murdered youth your son,
Your ward he was; if any trace of love
Rest in your heart toward his memory,
Give it full way. Do you know anything
That may have happened, ere you heard me call,
And found him lying dead within my arms?

Arb.
Indeed, indeed, I loved him as a son.
Poor orphan, during twenty patient years,
To him and to his sister, I supplied
A father's place—

Prae.
By Jupiter, my blood
Boils at your girlish sentiment! If you,
By these fond maunderings, seek but to obstruct
The course of justice, I shall hold you both,
You two discoverers of the crime—you Greek,
And you Egyptian—guilty both alike.
Advance, my lictors! [The lictors advance]


Arb.
'Tis not fear, my lord,
Of the law's prying eye, or vengeful hand,
That urged me to speak. Oh, no; the ghost
Of young Apaecides is hovering nigh—
That tender, beautiful, most harmless youth,
Differing in sex, but not in loveliness,
From his dear sister; and I hear the cry
That, as the delegate of Heaven, he breathes
Into my ears, demanding blood for blood.
And, thus adjured, I must tell all I know;
However much it may add grief to grief,
And crush the hearts now overweighted.

Prae.
On!

Arb.
While on my housetop, studying the stars—
That seem to threaten some calamity
Near to this quarter of the world—I heard
Voices high pitched in quarrel, then a blow;
Then the dull gurgling sound a wounded man,
Choking with blood, ejects; and then I heard
A cry for help.

Prae.
Whose voice?

Arb.
I could not tell:
It might have been Apaecides'.

Prae.
What more?

Arb.
I rushed into the street, and when my eyes
Grew more familiar to the darkness, saw
Glaucus unholding in his arms the corpse
Of dear Apaecides—a woeful sight!—
He seemed half frantic, with remorse or fear;
Begged me for aid, in wild and rambling terms;
But, to my sorrow, the unlucky youth
Was past all aid.

Prae.
What was the weapon used?

Arb.
I stumbled on this stylus. [Shows it]


Prae.
Let me see. [Takes it]

A common stylus, such as all men bear.
How were the wounds made?

Off.
As I judge, my lord,
With some long, slender weapon.

Prae.
Might it be
With such a thing as this?

Off.
Beyond all doubt.

Prae.
Arrest the Greek. [Lictors surround Glaucus]


Glau.
Arrest me! for what cause?

Prae.
The murder of Apaecides.

Glau.
My lord,
If in Pompeii there is only one
Who could not have performed that act, 'tis I.
He was my brother, by the ties of love
That stronger are than nature's. In a day,
His sister would have been—nay, will be—I
Cannot forego that hope as yet—my wife—

Ione.
O Glaucus, do you dare to doubt me? Yes,
Though wicked men accuse you, though the law
Convict you, and its brutal myrmidons
Drag you to death—there, at the cross's foot,
Or where the arena trembles with the roar
Of the on-bounding lion—if my lord
Will honor so his handmaid—I will wed
You and you only; for a voice from Heaven
Cries in my soul, Glaucus is innocent!

Nyd.
[Aside]
She must have heard my mother's voice, that says
The same thing in my soul. Oh, thank the gods,
That made me true to her through all temptations!

Glau.
Perjured informer, now I see the snare
Your coward cunning set before my feet.
I fell therein, because I could not deem
A man so base as you have shown yourself.
My lord, this villain, with the spider's craft,
Has woven a web of most deceptive lies
Out of a hundred facts, that are not truth
As he presents them. Let me question him.

Prae.
That you may do, before the judges, when
He gives his testimony. Officer,
Take bonds that Lord Arbaces may appear
Upon the trial. He would shield this man;
That is too patent.

Ione.
You are blind, stone blind.
Oh, let me speak, dear Glaucus; let me tell
The story of last night. No maid, nor man,
Should fear the truth, though every syllable
Must needs be dyed in blushes.

Glau.
Nay, not now.
'Twere useless to expose that scandal here,
To the world's wonder. Maiden character
Is like the new fallen snow; more easily stained
From its abounding whiteness. Patience, love!
There is a power in Heaven that guides the ways
Of even the wicked to its gracious ends.
All things, both good and evil, are as one,
To serve the purpose of the hand that moulds
Our mortal destinies.

Ione.
You are my guide.
The hand that ruling Heaven extends to me,
Henceforth forever, on my earthly path.
Your will I follow meekly, with a faith
That love alone inspires.

Glau.
Trust me no more
Than reason justifies. The fire of truth
Was kindled by the gods, ere man began:
They watch above it, as a sacred care,
Lest any spark be lost; and, when they will,
Like sudden sunrise, they flood Heaven and earth
With its eternal beams.

Prae.
Delay no more.
Conduct your prisoner to his cell. Strip off
His gilded plumage. Let him see and feel
What 'tis to be like one of that dear mob
He so admires!

Arb.
[Laughing aside]
Ha! ha!

Nyd.
Brute, brute! you thing,
You accident of ill, that, by mischance,
Have crawled into a place which you disgrace—
Off with your purple robe, to cover him,
A natural king of men; and hide your shame
Under the slavish garb you dare to place
Upon his royal limbs!

Prae.
Peace, sightless scold!

Lyd.
Peace, cry you, while yourself made war—

Clod.
[Restraining Lydon]
Forbear!
Your crazy love will prejudice his cause.
Has he not enemies enough, without
His friends evoking more to ruin him?

Prae.
Present your pikes, men! Does rebellion dare
Show front before me? [The people show signs of resistance]


Glau.
Patience, gentle friends!
Force cannot clear me of this deadly snare.
Though blows may rescue, for a little space,
My outraged body, my imprisoned soul
Would still be bound in shackles by this charge.
I have no fear of what bad men can do
Upon this stage and halting place of life,
This cradle of eternity, though they
By fraud, or violence, or death itself,
Slam to the doors of being in my face,
And set my spirit free. Move on!—Ione!— [Exit guarded]


Ione.
Glaucus!—my Glaucus!— [Faints]


Arb.
[Aside]
Victory!

Nyd.
Mark, gods!
He must be of your kindred.

Bur.
Hum! I think
The lion will have food tomorrow.

Lyd.
[Strikes him down]
Beast!

ACT V.

Scene:The Forum. At the back of the scene on the right, the doorway of the Basilica, or Court of Justice, a vast building of the Ionic order. Farther to the left, the temple of Jupiter, of the Corinthian order. A mixed crowd of Citizens, Soldiers, Freedmen, Slaves, etc., discovered, waiting to hear the result of the trial of Glaucus. Enter Dudus. Burbo appears at the door of the Basilica.
Bur.
Sentence is passed.

All.
What sentence?

Bur.
Instant death.

All.
Huzza! [Enter Stratonice from the Basilica, and advances]


Stra.
What are you howling at? I'll bet
In aurea, one to ten on Glaucus.

1st. Cit.
How?
What is the sentence?

Stra.
That he be exposed,
In the arena, to the lion.

1st Cit.
What,
Bound hand and foot?

Stra.
Gods, no!

1st Cit.
Armed then?

Stra.
Somewhat;
With the same stylus that the liars say
He did the murder with. Oh, we shall have
A royal fight. I'll make it one to seven
On Glaucus.

Dud.
That he kill the beast?

Stra.
No, no;
But that the beast do not kill him.

1st Cit.
I take it.

Dud.
I'll give you that ten times.

1st Cit.
Agreed.

Bur.
[Advances]
Hey, now,
How is the betting?

Dud.
One to seven on Glaucus.

Bur.
I'll back the lion—

Stra.
[Taking him by the ear]
No, you'll back yourself.
I'll teach you, you born ass, to bet against
My luck!—I'll teach you! [Shakes him]


Bur.
I am taught. I'll bet
Ten aurea on the Greek.

1st Cit.
How?

Bur.
Even money.

All Cit.
Taken.

Stra.
You wretched idiot, be still!
You have swept the odds from under me. Ye gods,
Was ever a woman cursed so in a husband?
Go to your pots; get drunk; do anything,
But throw our money in these sharpers' teeth.

[Retires with Burbo.
Enter from the Basilica, Clodius and Sallust]
All.
Room for the Senators!

Sal.
[Advancing with Clodius and Dudus]
This was sharp work.

Clod.
A mockery of Roman justice. I
Am too indignant at the Praetor's course,
At his indecent haste, and obvious bias
Against poor Glaucus, that I needs must be
A passionate counsellor.

Sal.
Justice, you say!
There was no law, no decent form of law,
Observed or thought of. By the huckster's god,
Winged Mercury, it made me sick to know
Such antics could be played in Italy.

Clod.
Yes, and ere Glaucus' orator could well
Get seated, ere his chair was warm, by Jove,
Out came the sentence—death, immediate death
In the arena, by the lion's jaws.
Sallust, we noblemen must look to this.
'Tis an attack upon our class. The rank
Of Glaucus gave him right, I think,
Of trial by the Senate.

Sal.
How that dark demon, the Egyptian, grinned
When all was over; how his evil eyes
Sparkled and kindled, as though hell had struck
A recent fire within them. There was more
Than a mere triumph in that glance. By Jove,
I should not wonder, if the truth were known,
That this Arbaces struck the blow himself.

Dud.
I will bet one to two that you are right.
Fie! our dear Glaucus an assassin! No;
No man of his refinement could be that.
No man that wore the toga as he did,
With such a presence, such a royal air,
Could be a vulgar murderer. Alas!
Who'll set the fashions in Pompeii now?
It is a public loss.

Sal.
Poor Dudus! Each
Has his own spring of tears at Glaucus' fate.

Dud.
Did you observe him in his prison garb—
That dirty woollen skirt, unshaved, unkempt?
Among the gold and purple throng, he seemed
The only king.

Clod.
Sallust, that thought of yours,
Which lays the murder on Arbaces' hands,
Should be considered carefully.

Dud.
The mob,
Those knaves behind us, have already got
That fancy in their brains. I heard a rogue
Just out of prison—one who ought to know
Crime by inspection—swear he'd go to death,
If yon Arbaces had not killed a man
Within a week; he saw it in his eye.

Clod.
Even Glaucus did not hint at that.

Dud.
Not he:
He is too noble to accuse a foe
On mere suspicion.

Sal.
Think of this: the priests
Of Isis and they only, had a motive
To kill Apaecides; if it be true
That he adjured their faith, and had declared
Their mysteries, mummeries, and their oracles
And miracles but specious tricks. Then he
Had a wild story of the filthy things
Done in Arbaces' house, on the pretext
Of worship to his goddess. Who but he,
This foreign quack, had motive for the deed?

Clod.
Oh, for an hour with Titus!

Sal.
He, alas!
Is on the sea, half way to Syria
Ere this; and Glaucus' doom will be enforced
This very day, this very hour, unless
The Praetor, suddenly should show himself
Less of a brute than the half-famished beast
That waits our poor friend's coming.

Dud.
Look you, now!
You are so solemn over Glaucus' fate,
Forget not that long stylus in a hand
As strong as Hercules! What if he kill
The lion, as he may do?

Clod.
Then the cross
Awaits him, that was in the sentence too.

Sal.
By Jove, it shall not! If he slay the lion
The people will be with him to a man;
And I will organize the mutiny.
And head it too, with voice, and arm, and sword,
But he shall be set free.

Dud.
I'll second you.

Clod.
O Senator!—

Sal.
“O Senator!” I was
A man before I was a senator.
Heaven grant, I be that till I make an end
Worthy my manhood!

Clod.
Come, come; let us talk
Among the people; set this matter up,
And see what taste they have for your exploit.
Hell help the Praetor, if we get the mob
Once on his heels!

Sal.
O Senator!

Clod.
Bah, man!
You set my blood on fire. Look to yourself,
If it consume your house. I love our Glaucus,
As dearly as I love my eldest boy,
His namesake.

Dud.
Look, look there! Oh, shame!

Cits.
Huzza! [Enter, from the Basilica, Glaucus guarded by Lictors, the edges of their axes turned toward him, followed by the Praetor, leaning on Arbaces' shoulder. Officers, Guards, etc. Some people hiss and groan]


Prae.
I have been told there is, among the mob,
A rumor, prince, that you have saved your life
By testifying against a guiltless man.
I'll show the beggars what I think of them
And their opinions.

Arb.
My gracious lord!

Prae.
Shackle the prisoner. Will you let the wretch
Walk free, and thus invite him to escape? [Lictors place heavy chains on Glaucus]

So let him drag his prison to the ring,
And face the justice of the lion's jaws.

Clod.
Sorrow on sorrow! [Enter lone in disorder, followed by Attendants, etc. She bursts through the Lictors. Throws herself on his breast]


Ione.
Glaucus!

Glau.
My beloved,
Have you come here, to make life dear again?
Ah, this I hoped that you would spare yourself;
Sweet as it is to me, to turn my eyes,
For the last time, upon my guiding star,
That made my life so beautiful, and tuned
The smallest pulse that beats within my frame
To that eternal harmony which holds
Heaven stable, and secures the blessed gods
Their own unbroken calm.

Ione.
O, love, to die
Thus sheltered in your arms! to lapse away,
As if from dream to dream, without a shock,
And leave this misery, with my dust, behind,
Buried with it among earth's other ills!
I have no fear. You men, when you esteem
Death nobler than intolerable life,
Pause not to lay your fate-defying hands
Upon the source of being. Why should we,
Poor women, weaker and less resolute
To cope with fate, not follow where you lead?

Glau.
Life is a trust from Heaven; 'tis not for us
Rashly to squander that which is not ours,
But a confided treasure of the gods.
Let them resume their bounty when they will;
We must not dare forestall them, nor decide
Whether their gift we value less or not.
Ione, live to vindicate my fame;
To see at last the light of truth break through
The darkness which surrounds me; to see time
Set his broad seal upon my innocence.
And mourn somewhat regretfully, I trust,
Above my outraged memory.

Ione.
O Glaucus,
This is the very tyranny of grief.
My heart rebels against it, like a slave
O'ertasked, that must perform some desperate act,
Or break, or break! What shall I do?

Glau.
Endure,
Endure like me.

Ione.
Oh! if you loved yourself
With half the love I bear you, it would seem
Folly to meet the torrent of my heart
With temperate counsel. But a gleam of hope
Still lights the future.

Glau.
All we hope or fear
Is locked in that mysterious future.

Ione.
Nay;
Until your trial, Glaucus—

Glau.
That is past.

Ione.
What?

Glau.
Yes; and you must nerve yourself to bear
Ruthless necessity.

Ione.
Oh, speak! The court
Has not passed sentence on you yet?

Glau.
Even so.

Ione.
That was the meaning of your pity then
Towards me, poor me, forgetful of yourself.
Fool that I am: I might have known as much.
Tell me, before I go quite mad, or die
Here at your feet. The sentence?—

Glau.
Death.

Ione.
Death, death!—
Surely you try my fortitude—not death!

Glau.
What else could justice measure out to guilt,
For such a crime?

Ione.
But you are innocent.
To know you merely, is to know that well.

Glau.
Noblest of womankind, your faith in me,
Condemned of others for your brother's death,
Lightens the burden of this earthly life,
Which I must bear a little further on;
And, with its prophet hand, unfolds the gates
Of Heaven before me—

Ione.
Glaucus, tell me all.
I waver on the verge of madness. Speak!

Cits.
On to the lion with him!

Ione.
What was that?

Glau.
The people whom I loved, and helped at need,
Have grown impatient. By the Praetor's doom,
I am condemned to be exposed today
In the arena, to a lion.

Ione.
No!
It cannot be that all the gods are dead:
There is some justice yet in Heaven. Man, man—
Or monster rather—

[To the Praetor]
Glau.
Peace, Ione, peace!
Do not degrade yourself and me with words
Of prayer or imprecation to that man—
That puppet of Arbaces' brutish will.
Speak rather to the lion I must meet,
As to a noble creature.

Ione.
Gracious gods.
I am so dazed with horror, that my brain
Seems to refuse to see things as they are;
And, like the moth about a deadly light,
Its coming ruin, chases round and round
Wild fancies in insane bewilderment.
Is this you, Glaucus? and am I Ione?
It cannot be that we, of yesterday,
Were what we are today. Awaken me
From the dark trance, that, like benumbing death,
Is settling on my soul.

Glau.
Benignant Heaven,
Spread a kind torpor, like an opiate,
Over her tortured senses! There will be
Time in the bitter future for her heart
To feel its chastening, and to understand
Your now secreted purpose.

Prae.
End the farce
Between the felon and this blinded girl.
We have been too indulgent.

Arb.
[Apart to Praetor]
Nay, my lord;
The desperation of her present state,
Will work for me hereafter. Fair Ione [advancing]
,
My ward, my child, if ever you had need
Of a protector it is now. My heart
Bleeds for your painful posture. Turn to me,
With your old confidence, I pray—

Glau.
Begone,
You triple murderer, you incarnate hell,
Or I will brain you with my shackles!

Ione.
Off!
Your touch would be pollution. Hire yourself
As headsman or assassin, for the pay
Your deeds may bring you! Never, while yon Heaven
Looks on the world, with meaning in its face,
Shall you see aught of me. [Arbaces returns to the Praetor]


Arb.
My lord, I pray
That you will save this damsel from herself.
She is unfit, as you have seen, to care
For her own interests. Give her to my charge.

Glau.
O Heaven, the misery of any death
Were bliss to this!

Prae.
Arbaces, take the maid
Back to your wardship.

Clod.
[From among the crowd]
I protest against
This tyranny.

Prae.
How, insolent! Who dares
Question my will?

Clod.
[Advancing]
A senator from Rome.

Sal.
Backed by another. Praetor though you be,
If you dare venture to impose restraint
Upon a free-born citizen, whose years
Place her beyond all tutelage, we'll make
The wondering capital ring long and loud
With fury at your act. [The crowd cheers]


Prae.
O, well, my lords,
If you will answer for the maiden's weal—

Clod.
To Caesar, not to you.

Prae.
Then take the girl.
I could not give her into better hands.
But mark you, lords, you are responsible.

Clod.
Yes, with our heads, that she shall come and go
As suits her fancy, and the liberty
The state accords her.

Prae.
[To Ione]
And are you content
That these two honorable and gracious lords
Shall care for you?

Ione.
Consign me where you will.
I am the slave of sorrow; how I drudge
Through the brief remnant of my doleful life
Concerns me not.

Arb.
Destruction be your lot
You meddling marplots! [Aside]


Glau.
But a while ago,
I thought that friendship had abandoned me,
And, like the Alpine climber, I was hemmed
On every side in hard and icy hearts.
Now Clodius, and now Sallust, you shall see
Your old companion front the lion's glare
With smiles upon his lips; and in his soul
Such bounteous thanksgiving to you both
As the worn mother stammers to the gods,
When her new-born lies sobbing at her side.
I have but this to say, to tell you all:—
I thank you more, a thousandfold, brave men,
Than if your courage had redeemed my life.
Take my Ione from my grateful hands,
My chiefest treasure, and the world's alike.
But show to her the scrupulous regard
Due to the widow of a friend, and I
Will tire the gods for blessings on your heads.
Farewell!

Clod.
O Glaucus, must I be a child
A second time?

Glau.
Dear Sallust!

Sal.
If my life
Could ransom yours?

Glau.
Ione, come to me.
Darling, I do believe, as I believe
In nothing else, man's spirit cannot die.
Death is no ill: a universal lot
Cannot be evil. Do you mark me, love?
Heaven knows with what a sorrow I renounce—
As something sweeter than my life deserved—
The golden prospect which our union
Opened before us. Join your hand with mine.
Here, on the verge of earth, before the gods,
I take you for eternity to be
My wedded wife. Earth scants us of our rights;
But to the long endurance of the soul,
And its deep capabilities of bliss,
Time and this life are but little drops
That fall into a boundless sea. You hear?

Ione.
Perhaps—I think I do—O Glaucus—

Glau.
Nay,
These words are for your memory. When the world
Looks dark about you, and the Heaven above
Seems but reflecting back its hopeless ills,
Oh, murmur not at what is hidden from you!
Remember, too, that through the darkest cloud,
The spirit's eyes can penetrate; that love
Is the supreme and only law of all—
Of every thing, whether in Heaven or earth—
The Power above has fashioned in accord
With his own being. I shall watch o'er you,
Follow you, guard you, whisper to your heart
That I await you, though your days on earth
Outnumber Nestor's. Oh, remember!

Ione.
Glaucus!
I cannot part from you. They will not dare
Tear you away from my entwining arms.
Gods of my fathers, hear me! You are just:
You will not look upon this awful deed,
That drags to unjust death a guiltless man,
While the blood-guilty flourish, and defy
You to your faces! [Cries without of “Glaucus! Glaucus!” Enter hastily, and in disorder, Nydia, followed by Lydon, and other Gladiators, supporting Calenus, ill-clad, suffering, and scarcely recognizable]


Nyd.
Glaucus—Glaucus! Heart,
Stand still, until he answer me!

Glau.
My child!

Nyd.
Now break, my heart, my mad tumultuous heart,
Break when you will, and tell the whole world why;
For I have saved him! This is you indeed,
My lord, my king! This is your hand, your—gods!
These are a felon's chains! Off, off with them!
And pile them, mountain high, upon that wretch—
That cursed wizard, murderer, perjurer—
That all that's evil in a single word—
Arbaces!

Prae.
Girl, you have forgot yourself.
This fierce, indecent noise is out of place,
Here, in this presence.

Nyd.
“In this presence,” ha!
For once I thank you for my blindness, Heaven!
It is a blessing that I cannot see
“This presence,” as you call it. Lydon, men,
Bring forth the witness! [Calenus supported by Lydon and others, advances]


Arb.
Hound of hell, he lives!
His death, and not his torture, was my need—
Shortsighted vengeance! [Aside]


Prae.
Witness? and of what?

Nyd.
The murder of Apaecides.

Prae.
That case
Is settled, and the murderer is judged,
Sentenced, and now awaits his doom.

Clod.
And you
Refuse to hear a witness, by whose word
The guiltless may be saved! Is this your law
And you its lawyer? Then, by all the gods,
A curse upon the law and all its tribe!

Sal.
You dare not for a quibble, for a form,
Deny us justice? In a cause like this,
It is not Glaucus only, but the world
That claims a right.

Prae.
It is too late, my lord.

Clod.
It cannot ever be too late for man
To do man justice. Hear, I pray, this man,
Who totters on the sharp and downward edge
Of his own grave. From him we may expect,
So solemn is his station, truth at least.

All Cits.
Hear him! By Jove, he shall be heard!

Prae.
Then speak.

Arb.
My lord, the law has no safe path to tread,
Save by those forms which the united will
Of ages of man's wisdom have imposed
Upon her careful steps. But set that by.
That wretch before you, asking to be heard,
Is a mere thief, who robbed my treasury;
And by myself was prisoned in my house,
Awaiting the convenience of the law
To be arraigned. Besides, my followers,
Some of whom stand behind me, at the first
Held him to be the murderer of my ward,
And so to me denounced him. Call my slaves,
And put them to the torture. They will tell
Nothing but what I say.

All Cits.
Oh, silence him!
Let us hear old Calenus! Speak out, man!

Prae.
[Apart to Arbaces]
I cannot stem this torrent.

Arb.
[Apart to him]
Then I drown.

Prae.
[Apart to him]

Not yet: another struggle. [To Calenus]
Who are you?

Cal.
Calenus is my name.

Prae.
A priest of Isis?

Cal.
Once; but not so henceforth.

Prae.
Arbaces, then,
Is your high priest, and to the sacred law
You are responsible, but not to me.
I have no jurisdiction in this case,
My lords. [To Clodius and Sallust]


Clod.
The law of Rome doth recognize
No such high priest nor worship; interdicts
The consecration of a temple, built
To Isis, throughout Italy; and hence
Her worshipers must style her den a house,
But not a temple. All of which you know;
Or solemn edicts, by the Senate passed,
Are passed to little purpose.

Prae.
[To Arbaces]
Foiled again!
Well, if it be resolved that I shall hear
The testimony of a common thief,
And weigh it with the clear, impartial words
Pronounced by Prince Arbaces; as we know,
A reputable man, of royal birth—

Cits.
That's to be seen.

Bur.
Yes, and the lion waits
For somebody—and to decide my bets.

Prae.
It is a violation of all law,
After a sentence passed, and—

Cits.
Curse your law!
Let us have justice!

Prae.
[To Calenus]
Tell your story, man!

Cal.
Oh! I am very weak, I have not had
A bit of bread—since when?—It seems an age:
And I am old besides. He meant to starve
My life out; that is plain enough—

Prae.
Go on!
Your maunderings tire us. Swear to what you say.

Cal.
About the gods my mind is somewhat mixed: [Raises his hand]

I know so much about them. To be safe,
I swear by all the gods of all the lands,
On which the sun shines, that what I may say
Shall be the simple truth. Will that oath do?
If not, propose another. I will swear
As fast as you propose.

Prae.
Old ribald cease!
Your oaths were empty howsoe'er you swear.

Cits.
Tell us about the murder!

Cal.
That I saw.
I saw the blow; I heard the angry words
That went before, and all that followed it.

Clod.
Who struck the blow?

Cal.
Arbaces.

Prae.
Monstrous!
This knave endeavors to avoid the guilt
And penalty of theft by perjury;
Swearing away the character and life
Of a most honorable man. For shame!

Cits.
Arbaces to the lion!

Arb.
Filthy brutes,
Blind with the blackness of your ignorance,
Arbaces flings defiance at your heads! [Praetor waves his hand. Trumpets sound. Enter a body of soldiers whose presence overawes the people]


Prae.
The story is incredible to us—
A bald, crude statement, unsustained by facts;
A mere denunciation, without show
Of circumstances to back it.

Cits.
Hear him out.

Prae.
I have heard enough. On with the prisoner—
The true and law-convicted criminal—
To the arena with him!

Cits.
No, no, no!
Arbaces to the lion!

Prae.
March!

Glau.
One word.
A few brief words is all the grace I ask.

Prae.
No!

Glau.
Not to you shall I address myself,
Not to the pitying people, whom I thank
For the wild justice they would execute.
I reverence the law, and if the law
Rightly condemns me, I have nought to say.
That point your lordship must hereafter clear
With Titus Caesar, my imperial friend.

Clod.
[To the Citizens]
See how the villain pales!

Sal.
Thank Heaven, there is,
Even in this world, a punishment for crime!

Cits.
Let Glaucus speak!

Prae.
I would not lose your love,
Good people, by opposing your desires:
So, if you will, the criminal may speak
For the last time.

Clod.
[To Sallust]
The wretched demagogue!

Glau.
It gives me pleasure, at the last, to find
Reason to thank your lordship.

Sal.
Clodius,
That hit and stung.

Glau.
Not for myself, I speak.
This life of mine, this fickle, transient breath,
Was given, and may be taken by the gods,
At their good pleasure. For my fellow man,
On the broad ground of justice, and for her,
This tender creature, clinging to my life
In desperate silence, who was almost mine
By the fair rights of marriage.—

Ione.
Glaucus!—

Nyd.
Woe,
Woe to the land that lets this crime be done
Before insulted Heaven!

Glau.
It is to you.
Romans, to you, Ione, whose hard fate
It is to be a widow ere my hand
Unloose your maiden fillet, that I owe
The duty of preserving you a life,
Whose taking would be shameful guilt to you,
Ye Roman citizens, and to my bride
A lifelong loss, a lifelong misery.
'Tis said, perhaps 'tis fabled, that I am
Descended from the ancient gods of Greece:
If it be so, my fathers, in your sight
I lift my guiltless hands, thus manacled,
And call on you, great Glaucus of the seas,
Seated in power upon Olympian heights,
For heavenly justice, here to counterpoise
This manifest injustice of mankind!

Nyd.
Woe to the land! I hear the gods descend!
Earth trembles at their footsteps!

Glau.
Prophetess!
Look, where my fathers light the dreadful fires
Of their forgotten altar! Bow, and die! [Flames and dense smoke bursts from Vesuvius. Loud rumbling sounds are heard. The columns of the temples reel and fall. The arch and cornice of the Basilica fall upon Arbace; and the Praetor. The people flee in every direction. A tremendous din, and crash of falling buildings goes on, while Glaucus, supporting Ione, Clodius, Sallust, Lydon supporting Calenus, and others, group together. As the darkness descends upon the scene, amidst tumult, Nydia is seen in advance of the group—leading them off. The darkness becomes total; and as it clears away, a large trireme is discovered putting to sea, containing Glaucus, Ione and their friends. Nydia is seated at the bow, a harp in her hands, singing]


Nyd.
Row mariners, row to the land of my love!
Spread forth your white sails, like the wings of the dove!
Bend, bend to the oar! for the god of the sea
Would know that his son is as spotless and free
As the fame of the goddess, now reigning in peace
O'er the land of her love, over beautiful Greece!