University of Virginia Library

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]