 | The Accuser |  |
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ACT IV
SceneBeside the fountain Callirrhoë, in the desert by Jericho.
A black Arab tent, the skirts drawn aside, discovering a throne and cushions in a half-circle. On the left of the tent, the fountain fills a basin in the rock; on the other side, stretches a desert-horizon, barred by a ruinous, little turret. In front of the tent a brazier is alight. Herod bows over the fountain.
Herod.
It is my new toy, this fountain of Callirrhoë,
and it gives me power to be alone . . . For they
will leave the old man by the springs for his healing.
Doris does not plague me. They think I
am comforted of the murmur . . . This fountain
is my new god. It laments for ever: its woe
never stanches. I should like that my God
should have a never-stanching woe, I should like
to comfort my God! I should like to listen to the
story of His wrongs. If indeed He were a Father!
If He knew how the heart clogs! . . . There is
such loving in me! I should like to be as Abishag
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warm the heart of some old god. There is such
loving in me! I figure to myself this fountain as
soothed that I remain at its brink . . . I will be
faithful.
[Doris comes from within the folds of the tent and stands by the brazier.
There is Doris! She is shivering, and she looks
over the sands. Doris, little wife, what are you
straining for?
Doris.
Herod, the wind blows too hard by the
fountain. You should return to your tent.
Herod.
Yes, presently.
[He tries to catch her hand.
Doris
(throwing back his caress).
Do not heed me—I
am old.
[She goes back into the tent.
Herod.
‘I am old—do not heed me.’ She says
we should not heed the old. Well, we are all
white-headed; we must all begin to live to ourselves.
Snowy councillors! Nothing but snow
round me! Doris, snow-white! Balbus and
Nicholaus, snow-white too; all my councillors,
snow-white. The old are so silent to one
another. It is snow, snow!
(Calling.)
Children! . . . They do not heed; and
an indulgence in me lets them alone. They will
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and transform me. I shall become like a goldfish
among a darting group of goldfish in the pond.
They have no interest in anything I have done,
and yet I have never displeased them.
[Little Herod Agrippa returns from among the children and stands square before the King.
Herod Agrippa.
Grandfather, you have built the
Temple at Jerusalem—what shall I build to God?
Shall I build another Temple?
Herod
(drawing the boy to him).
You shall protect
the Temple I built; you shall keep it safe as
King David kept his flock—safe from the bear.
You are stronger than the lion or the bear. You
shall protect the lovely House.
Herod Agrippa.
Will that please God?
Herod.
It will please God.
Herod Agrippa.
I shall be made High Priest, and
enter the Holy Place when I am King.
Herod
(groaning).
No, no! You can never be
High Priest: it is forbidden to the Race of Edom.
Herod Agrippa.
Grandfather, I shall be made
High Priest, and I shall set up the Golden Eagle
the young men have plucked down from the
roof of the Temple. Do not groan any more. I
shall set up Cæsar's Golden Eagle to protect the
Temple.
Herod.
God would have none of my images. You
must not set up the Roman Eagle: it is accursed.
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But Cæsar, grandfather, is always
the friend of God.
Herod.
You must not be dreaming of Cæsar.
God holds I have desecrated His Temple with
the Golden Eagle; He has cast it down; He has
cursed it; and I have fled to the desert. You
must love the Temple, you must be ready to lay
down your life for the Temple—but remember,
child, God will have no images . . .
Just as one could pour into youth some wisdom,
some power for its seasoning, youth escapes.
I perceive there can be no exchange of gifts
between the young and the old. How I abhor
these children! We shall play no more together,
for I have confessed to them I have offended
God. O my God, how I love Him and have
offended! . . . They are all dead that trampled
my Golden Eagle, for if my people deny me the
care of God's House, then shall my people perish!
. . . I have come to the desert to die, and I have
none to die with. One should keep one's children
for this hour. When we die we are in the
desert and we need that one should give us drink
. . . some passing caravan . . . some relief!
Antipater! Antipater! Now I have grasped his
name, I am saved as if from drowning! There is
rumour he has left Rome, and, uncommanded,
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send messengers to speed him . . . Now I am
sick I must remember my first-born. Easy to
my faults, overcome by my excess of power—
Antipater! Ah! shall I draw to me those eyes
that glittered, fastening to the sapphire on my
brow? Those void eyes that stared at me for
the crown-jewels, as if I were dead? It shall
be a test to tell him I am eaten of the worms.
Will he be my nurse—Antipater?
[Doris has been standing behind him. He turns and sees her.
O Doris, you quicken at the name. We are old
. . . It is lonesome . . . See, there is a little
fire; they have lighted a fire.
It is long since your Antipater went away to Rome.
Let us speak of him.
(Spreading his hands out
in the flame.)
Let us speak of him and his
return.
Doris.
You have forbidden me to speak of him.
Herod.
No, no! I have forbidden you to speak of
the dead.
(He surveys the fire.)
It is very lonesome,
and in the flames there is nothing of the
future. We sit by the flames and they glow . . .
and they speak to us of their young days . . . of
all they have wrought, the cities they have
destroyed, the sacrifices they have consummated;
how they have played with the tombs, how they
have had their pleasure with the dead.
(Rising.)
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Roman! They are very fair. No, no! they are
not murdered of the flames.
Doris.
Herod, you have a living son; do not speak
of the dead.
Herod.
I would be patient with you, Doris. You
have been very faithful. You have waited my
pleasure and I have sufficed you. Doris, it is
hard on you I am so sick; it is like slow dying to
you . . . For you would not care, would you, to
live any more when I am dead? Doris, why
are you stammering?
Doris.
My lord will not die.
Herod.
Yes, little Arab, little Arab Queen; I am
dying before your eyes. You have watched me
and you have not wept.
Doris
(at his feet, caressing him).
Let him come back
to the fountain: let him drink the waters of healing.
My lord is my life; he is the light of my
days.
[Herod suffers himself to be led back to the fountain.
Herod.
Will you give me to drink, Doris?
[But Doris is standing petrified before Salome, who comes suddenly from behind the tent, with a phial and parchment in her hand.
Salome.
Hold, hold! Herod, you must not take
anything from her hand. There is conspiracy.
You must trust no one about you.
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O Salome, this is an old word—conspiracy!
You have arrested me from drinking many a
draught that would have healed me. I will not
be arrested by your lies—so familiar the voice of
this temptation, bidding me believe Mariamne
unfaithful, and my slaves unfaithful, and my
children unfaithful. Leave me alone! I will
drink.
Salome.
Then my business shall be with the Queen.
I am the bearer of a letter to her from her son.
And I must read it to her alone, for she cannot
read.
[Herod rises to grasp the letter; the cup rolls into the fountain.
Herod.
Do not shiver, Doris! You are faithful.
There is some miscarriage, and whatever the
children have done you are faithful.
Doris, these hands were warming at a brazier;
Why have they sunk so cold?
Patience, Salome!
There are some words the agèd must not hear.
They must not hear of children that are false;
Nor must they be accused, not in their age.
Patience!
Salome.
No patience—for they are in league—
My Arab lover and your Arab son;
And Sileus has himself . . .
Herod.
Ah, Sileus, is it?
All plotting and mirage! Do not be childish;
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If Sileus in his wrath with me, because
I would not wed you with him, seeks revenge,
That were a little thing.
[Turning slowly away from Doris.
It is not Sileus
Can set my brain to rock in dizzy circles,
Can set my heart to moan among the hills.
If from the north, the south, the east, the west
Spreads apprehension, it is all the same,
All from one quarter: . . .
Shall I read your scroll?
Salome.
No, no! you cannot see. These are the words:
‘Mother, there is for thee within this box
That which will make Antipater a King—
Sileus' young mistress in Arabia hath
Devised the poison. Sileus is my friend.’
Herod
(grasping her wrist).
You have played at this before; my cupbearer
Would poison me, you said, and Mariamne,
You said, had mixed the cup . . .
She, innocent!
I have come to see so wide an innocence,
Spreading like sunlight on the battlefield . . .
I will not be impatient. Presently
A criminal shall drink this in my sight.
Salome.
So did one drink before—so falling down—
Herod
(raving distracted)
. . . . This letter, stay!...
[She unrolls it before him.
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Has never reached its goal.
Salome.
But question Doris.
Do you not see she trembles?
Herod.
She is old,
And she is very fond; needs must she tremble.
If this (lifting the scroll)
should prove its nature as a truth,
How should she bear the truth—she is too old.
[Doris falls, clasping Herod's feet.
Doris.
Herod, but you will spare Antipater?
Have mercy! . . . He is hasting to your tents.
Do with me what you will . . . His enemies
Are thick upon him, and your ears so quick,
So open to all evil . . . Herod, listen . . .
We have such terror of you, and the phial . . .
I am ready. I will drink it in your sight—
Drink it, it first
You will make oath to spare Antipater!
[Herod stands erect, silent; Doris rises startled. As if unconsciously, he begins to strip Doris of her ornaments.
Herod.
Salome,
See that the sentries keep guard, but if
This son that, as it seems, is drawing home,
Approach, at his demand, let him pass free.
[He goes on stripping Doris of her jewels.
Go—
Salome, call my counsellors to aid me.
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To aid me: draw them round me in my tent.
[Exit Salome. By now the ornaments of Doris lie in a heap on the floor.
Doris.
Is it for death? What would you do with me?
Is it for death?
Herod.
Chains! Amulets!
I am unfreighting you, my camel, I
Who loaded you so costly.
[He examines the jewels one by one as he takes them off; some he wrenches, others he lifts in the air and smiles as they glitter.
Ah, a thing
I had forgotten, I remember now—
I bought it from an Ishmaelitish lad.
I am glad to have it back.
Ho, amulets!
To work their fascination and effects,
As still birds on their nests—these chains, protections,
I armed you with all these; these kept you faithful—
Away!
This pearl that rose between the breasts
Of Mariamne, like a valley-dome,
Now among ruts and gritty warts . . .
Be patient!
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The knot miscarries of the jasper-stones;
And here a collar that I cannot snap!
Let it alone!
Are you quite stripped, quite bare?
[He takes her by the shoulders and pushes her out behind the rock of the fountain.
Now you shall go back to the wilderness.
[Covering her face with her hands, she runs out toward the desert.
I thought she would be tethered to my grave,
Chained as my camel, and to rot beside me . . .
But she is gone, is strayed . . .
Antipater!
Would that these sands
Would sweep up solid round us as a wall,
That I might hang upon his neck and spread
A deafness through my senses to aught else,
Save that he is my son!
[His Councillors begin to file in.
But even now
The pitiless, wise faces congregate;
And in my bosom it is growing stranger
Than any foreign land. I cannot kill,
I cannot give award . . .
There is Shemiah—
He pleaded with me once for Mariamne;
He pleaded I should put her in Masada,
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[He goes up tottering to Shemiah.
Shemiah, I have use
For something that you offered.
[He takes and fondles Shemiah's hands and paces a little along with him.
At that hour
I could not use it. Offer it again,
Shemiah! Look, it is a day of doom:
I must make accusation. But your part
Has ever been that of petitioner.
Of me you made entreaty for the Queen
That I should spare her . . . Your unanswered prayers
Have broken in upon my sleep . . . The hour
Is now propitious . . .
(Pointing to the others.)
They will give a judgment
Remorseless, of no patience. Counsel me
Your way of gentleness.
When they condemn,
As presently they will, beseech my mercy.
Shemiah.
I cannot, King!
[Herod turns swiftly away from Shemiah and faces the Councillors: he stops before blind Babbas—then slowly takes the throne. After a struggle, he begins to speak.
Herod.
It is not of one matter I would speak.
It is of many kingdoms, the revolt
Of many kingdoms, and an amnesty
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Do not tempt
To make my breast a den of raging lions.
I cannot bear the noise.
I am accused;
And many are accused. Antipater,
And Doris—and Salome—and myself.
Give me protection; let me feel your presence
Around me as great wings. O my beloved,
Wait with me on the moment! In my bosom
There are such changes as from day to night;
More fervent and of peril more extreme
Home from the night to day.
I judged in darkness:
Now as the light shoots down on me it shows
A spectacle so wondrous, in my awe
And in my joy and terror at the vision,
I watch, I guard the vision, but for judgment
I have no faculty.
Be round me, let
No fury slash into the glassy sea!
Sustain me of your love!
Nicholaus.
We cannot, King.
Herod.
Aid me!
Nicholaus.
We cannot aid you: not to mercy.
Herod.
No, no! You are not aiding me. No, no!
You cannot aid.
[He descends the throne.
Babbas, I saved your life,
I spared you, I was gentle . . .
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Now in my heart, so fierce an eddying pool
Of darkness! I am striving for my wits.
We all should be at prayer, making atonement
For this great evil that is done. I would
Abase myself in penance: but no instant
Is given me for my tears.
Babbas.
You are weeping, Herod.
Herod.
Babbas, you do not see . . . Antipater
Has ridden swift, is now at the tent-skirts.
Babbas.
I hear
His slippery, quick feet. Is he alone?
Herod.
He comes in purple, and he beats the ground
Wildly as Cain . . .
[Herod drags himself back to the throne, then hides his face in his hands. There is a great silence: Antipater, entering, kneels at Herod's feet. A voice is heard, as if a stranger were speaking.
You thought to find me here
Dead at your feet.
(Bowing on his hands down lower.)
I live . . .
And I can grant petitions: whisper me.
[Antipater half-rises, glancing round the circle; then he kneels again and whispers.
Antipater.
To be your son, your heir, to have no rival,
To be your own for ever.
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(planting his hands on Antipater's neck).
Sycophant!
O desert-tongue! You thought to find me here
Dead in my tent. And now we shall enact
Your deed in effigy.
Give me some wretch
The judges have condemned to death.
[Slaves are despatched.
Before
These holy men, you shall behold his death,
Even so effecting mine in effigy.
[An old condemned criminal is brought in.
The sentence of the law be done on you!
[Herod takes a goblet standing on a table by him, and pours the poison into it: but he draws back his hand from lifting it and commands Nicholaus.
Give him the cup to drink!
Drink, as an infant from his mother's bosom;
Drink as in happy confidence. O happy!
A sucking child!
[The man reels, falls convulsed, and dies.
This is an image! You
And I and Prince Antipater are seeing
Another, not this criminal, another,
As old as he in years and many sins.
Look! but the wrinkles straighten. All is judged
And done and imaged.
Take the idol hence,
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Of which it is the carven stone, we all,
I, you, and Prince Antipater!
Now speak,
If you can heave up action to the lips . . .
[He watches the corpse being carried out.
Ha, but this hanging face!
The hair not dyed safe to the silver roots.
O man! O image! Dust as yet of stone;
Dust, dust! O elders . . .
Aid me!
Nicholaus.
We cannot aid you—not to mercy,
We who have seen the picture in this deed,
The swiftness of the venom.
[Herod again covers his face with both hands.
Antipater
(in a shrill voice from the ground).
It was venom
Deadly and flashing deep: it was the venom
Bred for you drop by drop. It was a cup
For you to drink and was prepared for you
Out of my banishment.
(Kneeling upright.)
I am your blood—
I bear no absence and I bear no rival.
You drew me from the desert, from the race
You had forsworn, the race of Edom—slowly
You took my love out to yourself. As creatures,
Wild creatures, a wild horse,
With black-brimmed eyeballs, or a wild dog tamed
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I gave my ecstasy . . . You had desired
That I should tarry by you in your sleep,
Lest any should assail. I watched you breathing,
I watched your sickness; I have seen your eyes
Ravished of fondness—you, so hard, you care
For waking and for sleeping and for breathing
Without my voice to waken you, my touch,
My kisses . . .
I contrived your death,
As you contrived the death of Mariamne.
Yet she could live without you and beyond—
I cannot live like that, an animal
That being left of you upon the shore
Dies on the shore.
[There is silence.
[The silence continues unbroken.
And where you love you killed:—
Mariamne, doubting of her love, and jealous
That she should love the air by which she lived.
Your sons, who would have loved you had you trusted
That love you levy, but you would not trust . . .
They plotted, grew more distant, and were strangled—
You gave the word to me—within Sebaste.
So, in your likeness, of your very nature
And colour of your passion, in my rage,
Exiled from you at Rome, and knowing you
But as a mourner for my murdered brothers,
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I could not think of you alive. You know,
Father, that lust—by Mariamne's fate,
And by the fate of well-loved Alexander,
You know that lust. And to extinguish it
You have another victim.
[He creeps close to his father's feet.
I will lick
These dregs up from the floor, in all their venom,
If you desire my death to satisfy
That great exasperation that in Kings
Craves massacre, or that a single object
Should perish slow and of deaths multiform.
[The attendants restrain him.
. . . But if indeed
Compunction take you, if you have such love
That you would grieve for me, and start on journeys
To turn home sudden—as for Alexander—
Then you may spare me, father; I am yours!
What will the days be to you if I perish?
Nicholaus
(to Herod).
Give judgment! Speak! For Prince Antipater
The judgment of our wisdom is, he dies,
And for the sin God most abhors. He is,
Attested by his hand, a parricide.
[Unrolling the scroll of the letter in Antipater's face.
You sought your father's life, your father's throne.
What will the days be to him if you perish?
Safe days!
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(addressing the Councillors).
They had been safe if he had made me
The apple of his eyes! But his eyes turned
Away from me as from a bloody field;
But his voice shifted in its tones the moment
It must respond to me. The way he moved
A little distance off at my approach,
Involved me in the silent certainty
I was an exile from his heart for ever.
I plotted for his life—ill have I plotted.
Nicholaus.
Give judgment, King.
Herod
(removing his hand from over his eyes).
There was a counsel, elders,
And from young lips, Banish Antipater.
I will not take your counsel, but that counsel—
Banish Antipater . . . a little way,
Almost within my sight and yet removed . . .
Yon little fort . . . not far. Remove him from me,
If that to him is punishment. Remove him
A stone's throw from my presence and my love.
Antipater
(in a murmur).
You have tried Rome, the miles of separation—
Venom, my full response. Near and yet severed
. . . . It whirls the death-sands!
Herod.
Take my son away,
And shut him in the little desert-fort.
Antipater.
As Mariamne in Masada's fort,
Beside the Dead Sea beach. . . .
Herod.
So, as I loved her!
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And safe as Alexander and his brother,
Shut in Sebaste—safe! . . .
Your fortalice is full of scorpions, owls,
Adders and stoups of water in the floor . . .
[He stands with outstretched arms, and shrieks.
Sebaste! No, my father, not a fort!
Herod.
I follow counsel sent in oracle.
And I have heard you speak of love as echoes
Speak of far voices to a listener—
Echoes about the rocks and little towers
Of wildernesses . . .
Take my son away,
A stone's throw from my presence and my love.
Antipater.
Sebaste! Father, but they did not cry,
They did not tell their love. You heard no sound
From Mariamne, Mariamne's children;
You do not know they loved you, and no echoes
Leap from the dumb.
Herod.
They were of royal race—
Impenetrable—sealed.
(To the guard.)
Take him away!
He gnaws worse than the worms that eat my life!
He would have killed me, as the worm that kills.
Away, away!
[He sobs.
Antipater.
My mother, let her plead!
Beside you, faithful—and no echo!
Nicholaus.
Prince,
The lady Doris, who had mixed the venom
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Bare of all honour and all ornament.
Herod.
Away! It sullies love to bandy words.
Away!—to walls deaf-mute and deafened doors!
Antipater.
Your feet—one kiss!
[They restrain him and he is forced away. He turns at the tent door.
What will your life be to you if I perish?
[Exit Antipater guarded. With a wave of the hand Herod dismisses his Councillors, but holds back Nicholaus by his cloak.
Herod.
Bring me a draught of water and an apple...
It seems, I have not eaten for a month
An apple—
That red-blush sort that creams up to the knife.
[Nicholaus whispers to a slave, and himself goes out of the tent, returning with water from the fountain.
An apple—
How slow you are, you do not give it me!
Nicholaus
(as the slave re-enters with the fruit).
On the instant it is plucked, and from the bough
You shook but yesterday.
Herod
(greedily).
They are ripe apples—
Yet ripening, snatched
From the voluptuous doting of the sun.
A little sharp . . .
I am fainting, Nicholaus.
This faintness of sick appetite—it goads me;
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The sunken camel drop upon his knees;
It will not give me privilege of death.
Nicholaus.
Wine, there is wine!
Herod.
The juices of the apple,
The curdling juice.
[He takes a knife and begins to pare the apple.
There! I am satiate.
How tenderly it eats.
Nicholaus
(watching him).
Why, King, this is your wont; you are recovered:
And we shall have you in our midst.
Herod
(stopping in the paring).
We? Who? Antipater?
[With a sudden revulsion of feeling he attempts to stab himself, wounding his arm as those round him snatch the knife. Then he faints.
Nicholaus.
Hold, hold!
Madman, you shall not! This is sacrilege:
You shall not dare, you, an anointed King.
(Cries heard all round the tent.)
The King is dead. King Herod, he is dead—
Is dead! The King is dead!
Herod
(opening his eyes).
O Nicholaus,
God took the knife, and gave me of this swoon,
As safe as balmy water: Jericho
Has no such balm. What is it I had dreamed?
And can I die as Moses of a kiss?
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Jailer
(to Nicholaus).
The Prince Antipater would bid me loose him—
Is the King breathing still, O Councillor?
Herod
(suddenly raising his head).
Antipater would come? . . . Why would Antipater
Be loosed?
Jailer
(with a salaam).
You being called, O King,
Across the sands as dead.
Herod.
And in what heart
Would he be loosed to seize the crown?
The Jailer.
With fury,
And one long laugh.
Herod.
His sentence—let him loose
To judgment, to the Dark of Hades, night
That swerves not! Kill him, send him forth to judgment!
Call the Centurion of my guard, and with him
Join half-a-dozen soldiers. Kill my son,
As you would kill a bear or straying lion
Among the homes of men and vales of corn.
His is not of our palaces. Strike swiftly,
But swiftly—for wild creatures give the slip
To death with stratagems. Then bury him
Ignobly, not within the royal tombs,
But in my city of Hyrcanium,
That looks from high upon the desert-strands,
The pits and the acclivities.
[Exit Jailer.
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O Nicholaus, and I had shut him up
With heat of secret visits in my heart . . .
Of how I should slip down to reach him, scarcely
Biding to-morrow in my loneliness,
He in his loneliness. O Nicholaus,
When I was young I heard the cries and wailings
Of Arabs when their dead are carried out:
I thought there were in him such cries for me;
But on the air news of my death went forth,
And there was made no cry.
Call me Salome!
Call her, for I am dying.
Call her! I have a purpose lest I die
Too hard for one that dies in solitude
[A slave is despatched.
. . . Is she grown negligent? Year after year
I drew the creatures that I love down to me;
I drew my doves to call. It is my wont,
It is my pleasure, and I love to seek them,
To find them in the chambers unaware,
Breathing without suspicion or asleep.
And in her niche
I ever found Salome. Not to-day . . .
Yet she is coming.
There are many tombs
All round me, and no mourners round the tombs;
That is not well.
Nicholaus.
Cæsar will mourn you, King.
Should not that be enough?
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No, no! These times
Are so disordered they disorder God,
And He is grown unnatural . . .
Hereafter
There will be none to love Him in my fashion,
So royally, with so vast a pomp. Hereafter
He will lament me.
Nicholaus.
He will bring to mind
Your zeal for Him. He will forgive your sins.
Salome enters
Herod
(raising himself).
He will avenge my wrongs.
(To Salome.)
I have provided,
Salome, all my lands shall weep for me.
It is a sound that in my sepulchre
Will drive the winds away.
You are astonished?
But I have ever comforted the dead
With lamentation; all my leisure hours,
And in the night's long idleness, and when
My power hath rested on me as a crown,
I have lamented . . .
First for Mariamne,
First and for ever . . . for the boys
Cut off, that bore her image . . . for the child
Of Doris, and for Doris, that lone mother. . . .
Salome.
What would you do, my brother? I am old—
Herod.
Ay, it is that! And I would have young voices,
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As they had lost their mother in the wilds.
I would have young men wailing for their fathers,
And women wailing for their husbands slain.
If thou art faithful, thou wilt pledge this thing.
By Edom thou wilt pledge me, by my first,
Most ancient home . . .
There must be sacrifice!
And all my chiefs once reverend to my heart,
Whom I had so delighted in, who would not
That I should rule them, in a host must perish.
They shall be gathered in the hippodrome
Slowly as twilight musters on the plain.
It is my will that they should muster there
To hear some new decree, or for a council,
Or for the execution of some doom.
There let them tarry till my funeral,
There let my soldiers kill them one by one.
[Salome shakes, as if palsied.
You have but ill-conceived . . . I must be mourned.
Let there be many orphans in the land!
Salome.
They will but weep their fathers.
Herod.
From those tears
A race will spring that shall outshine the sun.
I do not fear
To make of children orphans, or to lay
On any noble heart calamity . . .
No hurt done when the tents are broken up;
There is no hurt
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Makes accusation, when the child is hard,
When the wife gives no comfort of her beauty
That the land fades away.
Let there be orphans;
Let there be many orphans in the land;
Young ravens too that cry for bread, and bleating
Of many flocks unfostered on the plains.
My son Antipater
Struck at his chains, would burst them in his fury;
He cried exultant when they cried me dead . . .
The world must be set right again. Salome,
The kingdom of the world cannot be saved,
Nor can the harvest-field yield up her fruit,
Nor can the moon rise up except in blood,
Unless the young with tears lament the dead.
Salome, are you faithful? . . . Speak!
[He falls forward on her neck, dead.
| The Accuser | |