University of Virginia Library

ACT V

Scene I

Later. Herod's bedchamber. Nicholas has been reading to him
Herod.
Tie up your scroll. . . . The nettling dog-star reigns.
I am hot; I am distraught. . . .
The cactus-flowers
And roses! All one's life would fain lie out
Open as theirs. . . .
[Exit Nicholas.
Now tell me, Sohemus,
Did the queen speak of me?

Sohemus.
She is always silent.

Herod.
Of me—and was she silent of all else?

Sohemus.
Save of her captive breath. She longed for motion
And air in her captivity.

Herod.
And never
She looked upon my portrait?

Sohemus.
Once.
Bent forward from the waist, her neck outstretched,
Her hands bound back, she gazed on you; I passed
And I repassed the door; she did not move.

Herod.
Send me Bagoas. Wake him if he sleep.

Sohemus.
My lord . . .

Herod.
What, you demur? Send me Bagoas.
[Exit Sohemus.
Now in a ball of light she would approach me,
And in the levelness of light be mine.
She must come, nor dissemble with me more.
Enter Bagoas
Bagoas, rouse your mistress, I would see her.

Bagoas.
But she is laid asleep,
No day-dress girded on, the winnowing
Of fans above her—

Herod.
She is strewn with musk?

Bagoas.
It is a most sweet sleep.

Herod.
Bid her awake!

Bagoas.
My lord!—

Herod.
Bid her come forth to me!

Bagoas.
My lord!—

Herod.
Well, eunuch?

Bagoas.
I dare not wake the queen and stay the fans.
Her anger—the impertinence. . . .

Herod.
Go out;
Tell her she is commanded by her husband
To come to him.

Bagoas.
O my lord!—

Herod.
Tell her, further,
To wake her will at need, he is the king,
And by twofold obedience she must come.
But, fellow, do not look distractedly.
Wake her with dove-wing touches; do not scatter
The bountiful moments of her sleep. No harshness!
Nothing but this—that she must come to me.

Bagoas.
My lord!—

Herod.
Go, do your office.
[Exit Bagoas.
If she should disobey, the noon were not,
And the eternal opposite of noon
Fixed as a destiny. . . .
But she lies wide,
Musk-strewn—asleep. The great mansuetude!
Sleep is so warm,
So affable. . . . Do the dark bow-strings curve,
Strained at my summons wide to let fly passion
That the smooth hour is ended? Does she waken
Her lids, her flashing eyes? But she will come!
I wait to very pain; a gold confusion
Of many sunbeams takes away the sun.
Silence—but out of it some fuller spirit
Is ready. . . . Silence—no! Along the marble
A shuffling on of slippers. . . . Not Bagoas!
[Rising from his couch.
Mariamne—blessed! Thou art come.

[She stands at the door in girded dress and veil.
Mariamne.
You sent at noon for me and broke repose.
Is it ill news, or worse—that you are ill?

Herod.
I wanted you—

Mariamne.
My lord, you have awaked me.
What was your cause?

Herod.
Bagoas waked you gently?
I wanted you—
One of your cheeks is blowing
Sleep's own red rose.
Come to my couch, beloved.

Mariamne.
I will not.

Herod.
Ha!—defy me?
The sun could scorch up any life outside . . .
And you are witless with your slumber still.
Are you not mine? Am I not burning here
Awake? I was awake while you have slept. . . .
I could not bear it longer—very pain!
Have mercy on me, solace! Yea, have mercy!
Earth and the secret hour are but one flame—
We are enwrapt. . . .
Heed me, I say—give heed!

Mariamne.
How dared you send for me, your royal queen,
And from among my women—as a slave!

Herod.
If you are queen, of me
The title names you, being my wife. Remember,
Woman—there is the breaking-up of ties,
There are writings of divorce, and there are deaths
For treason to be suffered—violence, thunders
And lightnings that enthrall you in their actions
To the quick of their own ravage—

Mariamne.
But I fear
None of these ills, nor you.

Herod
(grasping her veil).
Am I your husband?
Am I your king?

Mariamne.
Loose me! Not now!—A slave,
Bred of the servant Esau. Let me loose!

[She yields her veil to his hand and moves away swiftly. He stands as if stunned; then beats his head against the column of the door.
Herod.
Her veil!
[A young Eunuch enters.
Send in my cupbearer with well-cooled wine.
[Exit the Eunuch.
[Herod drops on his couch.
Oh, the void nothing, oh, the dust of flesh—
Arrows upon the ground!
Enter his Cupbearer
My boy, a draught.
Why do you fumble? Taste the wine.

Cupbearer.
I drink it.
I dare to drink what I have mixed myself.
But, king, I have a potion that the queen
Gave me, and called in the Aramaic tongue
A love-charm: 'tis for you.

Herod.
For me, a love-charm!
No, reptile—no!

Cupbearer.
A potion that she called
A love-charm in the Aramaic tongue.

Herod.
The wife-adult'ress, who would be a widow,
Calls her snake-venoms in Egyptian phials
Love-charms! . . . You dare not drink, conceiving aspic
Is in the nectar? Bid my Gaulish guard
Seize old Bagoas: we will hear as strictly
As rack can tell of this attempt. Bagoas
Must be delivered to the torturer
For our swift satisfaction. Every door
Of the women's quarters bid the soldiers seize,
Treading with secrecy, their weapons loosened,
Before the march, from sheath. Bid Sohemus
Attend me—and the Princess
Salome and the Tetrarch Pheroras.
[Exit Cupbearer.
Will not this strike my chains apart?
(Suddenly breaking into sobs.)
Forsaken,
Betrayed, condemned . . . Terrible wilderness!

[He weeps long.
Re-enter Sohemus
Sohemus.
My lord—

Herod.
You have heard?

Sohemus.
The queen—the queen is true.
She is not one to deal with sorcery:
She is plain in action, and when still is safe.

Herod.
You guarded her, while I was far away,
And all her hours were frank—you hold her true?

Enter Salome and Pheroras
Salome.
O brother! . . .

Herod
(putting his hand in hers).
Hush, Salome! Sohemus
Is praising my fair culprit.

Pheroras.
Sohemus!
Brother, but Sohemus himself is charged
In this attempt.

Sohemus.
No!

Pheroras.
On Bagoas' oath.
Bagoas, stretched to spider on the wheel,
Knows nothing of the venom.
But of the queen's ill-will—has noted it
Due to some confidence this Sohemus
Dropped in her ear, before you came from Rome.

Sohemus.
The creature is in agony and weaving
A lie for relaxation of his pain.
What should I tell the queen?
A messenger came to the fortress rarely
As song-bird to the desert. What invent?
I heard no tidings, nor could weave her tales.
Bagoas prowled about his royal lady
If but my step was heard, if but its echo
From distant rooms.

Herod
(crying out).
Her paramour!

Sohemus.
My king—

Herod.
Call in the palace guard! . . .

Sohemus.
But if through pity—

The Guard enter
Herod.
Take this dishonoured officer to death.
What is it that astounds you? By confession,
Wrung from Bagoas on the rack, he loosed
A secret of my will to Mariamne
The queen.

Sohemus.
The queen is guiltless.

Herod.
Out! Begone! Begone!

Sohemus.
But hear me—

Herod.
Take him out!
[Exit Guard with Sohemus.
Gross transformations!
I have been struck
As thunder-struck, nor know what I have said.
Yet I remember
She rose to call me slave, and struck far back.
Slave! There is left
One vast perfecting: she shall surely die.

Salome.
Swift as her paramour.

Herod.
No. I am husband
Of Mariamne to condemn the traitor
Who won my rights as favours of her love. . . .
She is queen of Jewry, and must take her trial.
Salome, do you think I turn to mercy
In showing her to all—this murderess, this
Converser with familiars, twice a whore,
To Joseph, then to Sohemus!
. . . The judge
Who sat against the city-gate is in me,
As I were sitting there—men coming through,
And going forth, and cries, and camel-loads
Of burthens, and the country with big lights
And clouds from over it—and I the judge.
Brother, you know my friends
Within the Sanhedrin: convoke their numbers,
Convoke the council for to-morrow. . . . Send
A eunuch to prepare the bath . . . So hot!
Salome, go, sit down beside my mother,
And keep her from me. . . . All about the doors
Of the women's quarters there are sentries standing
With naked swords. . . . The hive stopped up! Salome,
Go, little sister!
[Exit Salome.
I shall lie an hour
Or longer in the bath; and meet to-night
The friendly Rabbis of the Sanhedrin;
Set on the scribes
With the accusation. We must leave excuse
For no regret. There are wide doors that others
Must open, not ourselves. There are wide doors,
Too heavy; and beyond them. . . .
Do you see,
It must be ruled to-night among us, judged
In court to-morrow?
[Exit Pheroras.
Is there night and day?
Black . . . white . . .
I have untressed my hair!
Am I not now untressing it?
No action!
She must be judged indifferent . . .

A Eunuch
(opening a curtain and bowing).
The bath!

Scene II

Jerusalem. The evening of the next day. An apartment facing west, in the king's house. It gives on the columns of a vestibule.
Cypros and Salome
Cypros.
Do you hear him—hear my son; his ceaseless treading
As the creatures tread at night?

Salome.
I hear him, mother;
He is stepping out her doom.

Cypros.
You hear his treading,
Soft on the carpet, struck against the marble?
Would she were dead, who hated him to death!
Why does he place a guard, as round a city,
Deep round the women's chambers of the palace,
As strong a guard as he besieged a city?

Salome.
Had he but looked on her,
Those mournful, sable eyes and lids in shadow
Under the pearl-laced crown, that brow in shadow,
And the obdurate mouth had been a charm
To honour as to fortitude. But, mother,
She strives to send no message; she is silent
As trophies or cold statues.

Cypros.
Listen, listen!
Is he not treading nearer? But I fear it,
As when the heel of thunder clangs at hand. . . .
I will run the other way. To-morrow!

[Exit.
Salome.
Ay—
To-morrow for the mother and the son. . . .
Our time is now, Herod's and mine!
(Looking out.)
Day fills its arc; and there is quietness
From heat and sunlight—there are shadows.
Enter Herod
Herod,
My brother . . .

Herod.
Do not stop me with your words.

Salome.
Stay but a little . . .
(She catches his hand.)
See,
How cooler and more dark it is!

Herod.
More dark!

Salome.
A daylight blue without the sun—and quiet
About the buildings. . . .
You are with me now.

Herod.
. . . Salome, out beyond
The Dead Sea there is country where the lions,
The terrible wild beasts upon the tracks,
Sicken of fever every other day,
Sicken, or else they would destroy the world. . . .
Sicken of fever in the tracks . . .
The hunters told me when I was a boy.
[He throws himself down on some cushions.
Salome, have you met
And passed a lion on his path? They told me
A man should never turn his eyes
To watch the lion, for that would waken anger,
Though he were sick. . . . You did not set your eyes
On mine. . . . Salome, every one has hurried
Before me after gazing; but no faintness
Of heart is in you, and no rage in me,
Only this freezing fever.

[He begins to shiver.
Salome.
Take my stole.
[She goes to the door and calls.
Bring wine, with grain of pepper-corns.
[She comes back to him; an attendant brings a cordial and goes out.
Drink, drink!

Herod
(after drinking).
Salome . . .
O God of Israel, God of my Temple,
The stories of my childhood!
In a heathen,
Untrammelled fever of my soul, Salome,
I even could pray
Thul Kholsa, the old idol of our fathers,
Patron of safety in affairs of peace,
Patron of safety in affairs of bloodshed;
And cast a sheaf of arrows at his feet
For consultation, watching, for my omen,
The figures made upon the ground, as fall
The arrows. . . . I, so deft in archery—
I would be safe, I would be safe—
Cast arrows
To know myself secure. . . .

Salome.
Hush! Are you mad
Indeed? Why?

[He rises and moves toward the sunset, so that he has his back to Salome.
Herod.
I have thoughts
Of respite and reprieve. . . .

Salome.
Herod!

Herod.
Of respite
And of reprieve—not from a tomb, but death;
Not from her burial, from immolation,
Banishment to the void and from the air!
Not so escape! But there are fortresses—
Masada by the Dead Sea coast;
There I could bury her as in a coffin,
Each sigh of wind a death-song over her.
Were not that best? A tower her monument,
Yet she not dead, not out of all account,
Still mortal, still not absolutely lost;
Coffered, not coffined—not inanimate,
Held in the jaws of her sarcophagus,
Unseen of living nature, but alive . . .
With the cloud eyes of her, the silken cheek,
Even the voice of rough-edged undertone,
Enamouring offence. There none would love her,
None! But my treasury
Would have sealed riches, not a destitute,
Defaulting cave. Among the coins and jewels,
Locked-up regalia and spoil—a queen. . . .
The difference! . . .
There in the rusty gloom accessible.
The difference! I think she shall not die.
I think of fortresses—
Masada by the Dead Sea coast.
I ponder not to kill her, but immure.

Salome.
Surfeit your hatred
Upon my love! Brother, the feast be full!
But listen, while you feed upon your hatred,
And I will play, in love, Love's instruments
Against your ear. Listen! This Jewess—listen!
Does she not make you opposite in nature
To your own self? You have won honour, Herod;
Your people called you Great!
Imperial Rome
Has found your brow incapable except
Of one adornment that was given, a crown.
Will you, who won Arabian wars and settled
Your crown on you by siege and battlefield,
Be made so tender by a cruel wanton,
That when her spite would murder you your blood
Claims not her blood's atonement?
You that hold
The Romans as true governors of earth,
The judges—the firm lips and brains!—you summon
A Council, you demand a sentence passed,
Your will her condemnation; and you shiver
With feverous weakness and unsay the sentence
The law pronounced and the king ratified!
Oh, is this man worthy a Roman ensign,
Worthy an eagle in the air above him,
Worthy the friendship of the lords of earth?

[A Eunuch stands at the door.
Eunuch.
Rabbi Shemaiah prays to see the king.

Salome.
Will you receive him? Send him back—he is
An enemy within the Sanhedrin.

Herod.
I will receive him.

Salome.
Herod, you are ragged
And lank, not in your majesty.

Herod.
The king
Will hear Rabbi Shemaiah.

[Exit Eunuch.
[Herod and Salome keep silent: she kneels down on her cushion and looks at the sundown till Shemaiah enters, when she turns and watches her brother.
Shemaiah.
O lord king,
Grant your forgiveness that I speak the words
Of many at your feet; temper your wisdom
With mercy; press not with intemperance
Of haste against the Asmonean lady,
Your queen condemned—but while the proofs are dark
Against her shining as your wife, remove her
To solitude of prison, and awhile
Hold back from her the final penalty
On which no light can shine. My voice is many
A voice in prayer.

Herod.
We turn not from our sentence.

Shemaiah.
Turn not, but linger
Awhile the days before it be fulfilled.

Herod.
My wrath is on you, Rabbi, and on those
Who would turn back from their own judgment: never
Will I, the judge, turn so. Remorselessly
Our God effects for justice, and remorseless
Before men's fear should be that governor
Who holds him to his rulership—his sentence
Shall be of doom, shall stand, shall domineer.

Shemaiah.
The Jews have loved her.

Herod.
Have they?

Shemaiah.
Their deliverance
By Judas and his brethren, as rich spice
In wine, has glorified her stately blood;
They would not see it shed save for such guilt
As many days have looked upon with strictness
Of light and argument.

Herod.
My wrath is on you.
Old man, I am the judge, I am the king—
There will not be a queen: I am her husband.
The voices you would have me listen to
Are low down, far behind, far off—the croaking
Of frogs at night-time . . . There is night for me,
And dawn to come and sliding day. . . .
Go back,
Far off!—Bid those that sit and croak with you
Remember how august the Sanhedrin
Would rule the sons of Jacob. Say the king
Will turn not from his sentence for an hour.

Shemaiah.
God save you!

[Exit.
Salome.
Herod—

Herod.
I shall stay here, Salome; not with you,
But not alone. . . . There is no track for sleep
To wander after me; I shall not sleep,
Not at the hour when night is dead asleep.
Send Nicholas to read his History,
To read it on and on, and by my hearing
Tangle my fancy that I may not image
The heaved sword and the eyes'
Last kindness to the light—
The hollow in them at the severance
Of the adored head from its bodily form
And appertaining stature . . .
[He begins to wander backward and forward.
If I listen
To Nicholas it will be as a sea—
What men have done and suffered—as a sea
Pouring upon my ears; and it will tangle
Imagination that it shall not raise me
My bridal chamber at Samaria,
The adored head on my bosom, the young body
Loving me close, in very oneness, flesh
Even of my flesh—our bridal a flower's heart
Of balsam, and our secrecy . . . To-morrow
The people watch her to her death.
Salome,
Call Nicholas . . .
I shall stay here, for dawn
Comes on the other side: the sun
Comes on the other side.
Send Nicholas!

Scene III

The balcony of Queen Alexandra's house, overlooking the courtyard of the royal palace, filled with people.
Alexandra.

I am waiting to see her pass: it
is a spectacle. She has grown very beautiful

in her silence. She will not look on me;
she refuses to say farewell.

[Turning back at the sound within of angry babble.
No, children, no! They must not look—
I will not lift you up. No!

A Voice.
What is it?

Alexandra.
It is nothing: it is some one who must die.

The Voice.
Then lift me up.

Alexandra.

It may be she will turn if she
hears the child. My beautiful one! I must
see her!

[She brings out Alexander in her arms.
Alexander.

Where is it? The people stand
together with close feet. Where is it? There
is no music.

Alexandra.

Peace! But when she comes,
call for her; speak her name.

[Enter, at a distance, Mariamne; behind her, her waiting-maid, Judith; then her executioners and a guard. A low groan with weeping is heard from the crowd.
Alexander
(struggling free).

I will not see it!
Aristobulus, it is our mother. . . . I will go
to her!

[He runs within; there are sounds of struggle and of sobs.
Alexandra.
A victim! I have borne but victims, I
Of the Deliverer's bone and blood. A victim!
The Jewish royal glory
Before me criminal, abased.
My people,
You are weeping, Israel, you are weeping her!
Should you not weep? I am a rootless stem,
I have no son:
I gave this child a bridegroom, who exalted
And raised her up a queen.
And she refused
This saviour of our race,
Enraged his love with insolence and harshness,
Nor feared him, nor obeyed him, nor with wisdom
Guided herself, nor counsel. Oh, behold her,
Your crown laid in the dust, my shame, my sorrow . . .
Mariamne!
[Mariamne, who is now below the window, pauses, but does not look.
I am aged,
I have few years; you have made them grey to me,
Grey years . . .
My people, she has closed her heart.
She that betrayed her race, her doting husband,
Her tender children, she has closed her heart.
Where is the Rose
Of Sharon, where the Lily of the Valleys?
My people, I have seen my kindred perish,
I have no son, . . . and she has closed her heart.
[Mariamne neither looks nor moves. Suddenly Alexandra leans over the balcony, till her head is in line with her knees.
Judith!—My service now!

Mariamne.
I shall want her by for my disrobing. . . . No,
Pass to your mistress.

[Judith hesitates, but Mariamne's hand forces her to leave the procession. Some one in the crowd throws Mariamne a rose; it falls at her feet, and Judith picks it up, giving it to her mistress, while they say good-bye with their eyes. Mariamne walks on, wrapping her hands round the flower. Judith goes into Alexandra's house, and in a little while comes on to the balcony.
Alexandra.
You have touched her robe; oh, you have touched her hair—
My child!
You could not have disrobed her, child.
Nay, do not weep!
[She holds Judith against her breast for a moment, then looses her.
Go, bring me back the raiment of my child,
And the tresses of her blood. . . .

Scene IV

Samaria: the king's house. A large apartment; at the back closed curtains that separate it from an ante-room.
The body of Mariamne has been embalmed and laid in a high-erected sarcophagus with a crystal lid. Alexander and Aristobulus, her young children, creep up to it, toys in their hands.
Alexander.

O Aristobulus, one day I shall be
a man; then we shall be great soldiers. . . .
Let us play—let us play at taking Jerusalem.

[They sit on the floor beyond the sarcophagus and begin a game. Cypros, with lynx-like movement, steals down, where, unseen, she can observe them.
Aristobulus.

Here are not bricks enough.

Alexander
(taking his hand).

I will get you
bricks out where the sand wren is singing.
(Seeing Cypros.)
Why are you here? Why
do you watch us?

Cypros
(grinning through her wrinkles).

I am

the enemy that will destroy your city.
Have a care!

Aristobulus.

Women cannot destroy cities.
Move back!

Nicholas comes to the door with a deep obeisance.
Nicholas.

Lady Cypros, may I enter?
[She gives sign of assent.
I find the palace an unguarded tomb; all the
doors are wide, and all the ministrants dispersed
—the king absent.

Cyros.

I am guardian of the princes, I their
grandmother: I am guardian of the tomb.

[She laughs.
Nicholas.
The king—

Cypros
(suddenly clasping the knees of Nicholas).
If you could break the seal upon his heart!
He hunts the wilderness, and very far
Our young men tracked his wandering yesterday:
They heard a cry as lonely
As the rock-partridges in rocky close!
Sometimes at dead of night he brings a torch
To look at her, and laughs long in the flame;
And then the torch is lost, and I hear groaning
As never I have heard it since my travail.
I fear my son will die. You are without,
You move in the open earth—where is my son?

[Nicholas trembles and looks fearfully at the sarcophagus.
Nicholas.
This is the secret—and his centre here;
And this the pestilence he would escape,
And carries to the desert.
[He goes up to the sarcophagus.
Wonderful!
A mystery of Venus laid aside
To rest in the gold watches of the sea,
And like a trophy, or a spoil of war.

Cypros
(behind, plucking his sleeve).
Is she an evil spirit craving blood?

[A voice is heard in the tone of command, and silence falls on the whispering of women's voices behind the curtain. Herod lifts it and runs up rapidly to the sarcophagus. Cypros shrinks back.
Herod.
See, Nicholas!
I scan her eyelids . . . folly is not there,
Nor folly as a sackcloth on her face.
[Scanning Mariamne.
It is most curious, she grows
And changes like a sunrise in its clouds;
She is not fading from me. And sometimes
She smiles; and there are moments she forgives me,
And moments of revenge.
Suddenly Herod descends the steps of the sarcophagus, and motions to Nicholas to sit.
Well, friend! Well, Nicholas?
Tell me what tidings from Jerusalem.
'Tis long since we have met.
[Perceiving Cypros seated on the steps that lead up to the curtained ante-room.
How patient, mother,
You sit, how patient!
[He goes to her and lays his head on her knees.
There! I have been hunting,
And I am hungry.

Cypros.
Son, you are a-hungered?
You will do well, will live, though thin and wasted.

Herod.
Fetch me the meat I love—go, cook it for me . . .
The fresh meat from the hunt.
[Exit Cypros.
I am hungry past my wont. In all my hunting
I have killed nothing: it is all a void
Out on the shrieking fields and dunes . . .
I asked
My mother for fresh food . . . but I have planned
A greater festival. To-night I banquet.
Music!
[He turns sharply toward the sarcophagus.
No, no! I have not touched her harp.
No music!—I have passed into her garden,
And cut the roses one by one, a harvest
For the great banquet and the many wreaths.
It must be all accomplished of a sudden,
For I must end this solitude.
Full wickers
Of roses have been carried to the women—
They are weaving them within.
(Smiling.)
Philosopher,
And you will start a theme:
Was Alexander greater of his day
Than Cæsar was of his? Some swelling theme
To strike a noise from all.
But do not leave me!
[He moves round and perceives his sons.
Well, children—at your play?
[They rise and leave their toys on the ground.
Come back!
Why were you playing in this room?
[The children shrink before him. Herod convulsively clutches them and holds them down on each side.
Who was it gave you leave?—What scares you?

You love her? Listen, you shall always love
her. She is as a goddess—but we must not
be afraid of her; she is not close by you on
the earth as I am close. Children, I love

you in your play. I would not break it.
This city . . . you besiege it? (One of the boys nods; with trembling hands Herod picks up some of the toys.)

I will play with you.
You must talk and teach me how to play.
(The children remain stubborn.)
What
would you like to do? Would you like me
to tell you a story? (They shake their heads.)

Not a story? Not how I killed
Hezekiah, the robber-captain, when a lad
as young as David? (They still shake their heads.)

Not that;—but the vengeance I
took for my father Antipater, your grandfather;
blood for his blood . . . or the
Arabian War, the captives taken in their
thousands? You shall become great as I
am great: I can teach you. Will you listen?
When I was in Rome . . .

Alexander.
Father, we would go to Rome . . .
Send us away to Rome!

[They spring back frightened at themselves.
Herod.
To Rome?

[He remains staring at the thought. The younger boy turns back and kisses his hand.
Aristobulus.
May we go, father? May we go?
We shall come back again.

Herod.
Go, go for ever!
[They run away terrified.
They shall go, they shall go—shall be made kings.
How natural it is! . . .
And I am left alone. How natural
One's children should go forth from one to Rome . . .
And all the voices die!
I cannot be alone, for she is there.
And yet I should not dare to waken her,
Not from her sleep. And yet . . .
Call on her, call,
Call on her by her name! I dare not call.
She must not think I call, but she must be
Persuaded back to me. Go, bid her women
Call her as when she was their mistress. Set them
To stand behind the columns of the house,
And call her home.

Nicholas
(controlling his terror).
I will instruct the women.

Herod.
Fetch them to hear their charge.

[Nicholas opens the curtains: the women are weaving wreaths of roses for the guests of the evening. A nurse and the children are with them.
Nicholas.
The king commands you
To the king's presence.

[They drop the roses, some at once, some as they come forward.
Herod.
Women of my house,
The house is silent: there is but one name
To break for me the solitude. Disperse you
Among the columns; call your mistress back,
Call her to me, call one by one!
If this is but a frenzy to your thoughts,
Do not pursue your thoughts; stay them with me.
Call her as on the mountains God was called
By Jephthah's daughter and her troop of maidens,
The servants of her house.
You have soft voices;
I heard them creep about the silence.
Rouse them
Forth, as the desert lark's, to fetch your lady
Home to her house and husband.
Lift your roses—
The fresh blooms in your hands, disperse, and call her name.
[The women disperse.
Others must call! . . .
I am to her a stranger of the tents . . .
Woe to the tents lost in the stony plains!

[Suddenly women's voices severally and in unison call many times, near and far away.
Voices.
Mariamne! Mariamne! Mariamne!

[The children run to their nurse in terror, and she covers their heads with her veil. Herod bends his face down on the lid of the sarcophagus. The voices call on: through them his loud whisper is heard to the corpse.
Herod.
Mariamne!