 | Zenobia |  |
SCENE VII.
Enter Mithranes.Mit.
My lord, I bring
Most welcome tidings—Rhadamistus now
Is made your prisoner.
Tir.
Ha! and where, Mithranes?
Mit.
He came himself, unweeting, midst your troops
To wear your ready chains.
Tir.
Relate the whole.
Mit.
In swift pursuit a flying warrior's steps
He follow'd, and with matchless boldness enter'd
Within your tents.—Against a thousand swords
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Eager he sought the object of his vengeance.
At once he saw, o'ertook, and pierc'd his breast.
Tir.
Unheard-of rashness!
Mit.
Yet all is not told.
This done, he hop'd again to leave the valley,
And might have scap'd, but at his greatest need
His sword broke short, and left his hand defenceless.
And still, though numbers round him countless press'd.
With threatening arms, alone, without a weapon,
He scarcely deign'd to yield.
Tir.
The wretch who fell
Beneath his rage was surely he, whom late
I here beheld.
| Zenobia | |