 | Callirrhoë |  |
SCENE III.
—A hill-side, Calydon; on the opposite height a troop of Mænads. Enter Coresus.Coresus.
These lovely ranks I've marshalled for the god,
And the plague-heaps o' the city! Oh, it's vile,
That work; it crazes me. All sights are turned
To madness; all the deep tenacious loves
Drop from my life. Anaitis dead; the faun—
And I had sought for him the whole night through—
My faun. I found him in a moony nook;
So deep his slumber, an arbutus-bell,
Fallen on his lid, there lay; a woodmouse curled
Asleep upon his breast; the topmost lock
On's head hung loose as aspen-leaf to the wind.
Save for that little touch
Of life's disorder, I had feared, he lay
In stillness so deep settled.—Were she hurt,
Hurt to the very quick! All's well with her,
I'm left with my torn Mænads. I'd not live
To be the butt of my malediction,
But for the oracle,
The oracle, that yet may ruin her.
It's a way of tracking guilt down to the seed,
And the guilt's her's. My hands are stained with it
Red to the fibre. (Enter Dione.)
What o' the oracle?
Dione.
Oh, nothing of the oracle?
Coresus.
Then, indeed,
Nothing of note.
Dione.
The bleating children come
Up here. I find them wet-faced i' the cold.
Coresus.
It's nothing; it's the plague.
Dione.
No; the flesh was sound, but the face had a
sort of cry in it. Methinks it died for its mother.
[Enter Messenger.]
Messenger.
Oh, quick, Coresus, for from the oracle
Emathion hath returned, and the word is, Cephalus'
daughter must die for the insult done to Evius' priest.
They've brought her to the altars. None will die for
her. She's waiting. Quick! or she'll not feel it, if
you're laggard.
Coresus.
Will she faint?
Messenger.
No; her face grows sharp and hard as
sculpture. She must bleed. Oh, come to her! The
plague will not budge while she's breathing.
Coresus.
What! No quiver till the knife-thrust?
Dionysus, I thank thee for this rare victim. All things
to my hand. Yet 'tis possible she escape me. All's
marred if one die for her. How said you?
Messenger.
None will die for her; she, Callirrhoë,
stands at the altar steps.
Dione.
Callirrhoë! It's the girl with the blind father,
that sings.
Sings! Have you heard her of late, have
you marked her?
Dione.
To bring all this death! No marvel they'l
not die for her.
Coresus.
Peace, fool! The plague's mine. I own it.
Did you say none would die for her? Deaf, deaf, the
whole city full. O Dionysus, thou tormentest as a god!
Dione.
The people perish. Think! they're innocent.
Save them.
Coresus.
The plague's mine; her blood's mine. I
thirst for it. To uncistern her very heart! And to
think one must get at it as at a beast's heart!—her heart
—Callirrhoë's. See the great knife be sharp. To the
altars!
[Exeunt.
| Callirrhoë | |