University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

—Cherson. Irene's prison.
Irene; then the Gaoler's Child; afterwards Gycia.
Ire.
Ah me! The heaviness of prisoned days!
Heigho! 'Tis weary work in prison here.
What though I know no loss but liberty,
Have everything at will—food, service, all
That I should have, being free—yet doth constraint
Poison life at its spring; and if I thought
This woman's jealous humour would endure,
I would sooner be a hireling set to tend
The kine upon the plains, in heat or cold,
Chilled through by the sharp east, scorched by the sun,
So only I might wander as I would
At my own will, than weary to be free
From this luxurious cell. Hark!
[The tramp of armed men is heard.
What was that sound?
I could swear I heard the measured tramp of men
And ring of mail, yet is it but illusion.
Last night I thought I heard it as I lay
Awake at dead of night. Mere fantasy
Born of long solitude, for here there are
No soldiers nor mailed feet.
[Again heard.
Hark! once again.
Nay, I must curb these fancies.

Enter Child.
Child.
Gentle lady.

Ire.
Speak, little one. Come hither.

Child.
Gentle lady,
My father, who is Warder of this tower,
Bade me come hither and ask thee if thou wouldst
That I should hold thy distaff, or might render
Some other service.

Ire.
Ay, child; a good thought.
Bring me my spinning-wheel.

[Child brings it.
Ire.
(spinning).
The light is fading fast, but would choose
This twilight, if thou wilt not be afraid
Of the darkness, little one.

Child.
Nay, that I am not,
With one so good as thou.

Ire.
Nay, child, it may be
I am not all thou think'st me.

Child.
But, dear lady,
Are not all noble ladies good?

Ire.
Not all,
Nor many, maybe.

Child.
To be sure they are not,
Else were they not imprisoned.

Ire.
Little one,
Not all who pine in prison are not good,
Nor innocent who go free.

Child.
The Lady Gycia,
Is she not good?

Ire.
It may be that she is.
'Tis a vile world, my child.

Child.
Nay, I am sure
The Lady Gycia is as white and pure
As are the angels. When my mother died
She did commend me to her, and she promised
To keep me always.

Ire.
But she sent me here.

Child.
Ah! lady, then I fear thou art not good.
I am sorry for thee.

Ire.
So, my child, am I.

[The tramp of armed feet is heard again.
Child.
Ah! lady, what is that? I am afraid.
Didst hear the ghostly feet.

Ire.
What heardst thou, child?

Child.
A tramp of armèd men and ring of mail.

Ire.
Then, 'tis no fancy of my weary brain.
If it comes again I must inquire into it.
'Tis passing strange. Be not afraid, my child.
'Twas but the wind which echoed through the void
Of the vast storehouses below us. Come,
[Spinning.
Let us to spinning. Twirl and twirl and twirl;
'Tis a strange task.

Child.
Lady, I love it dearly.
My mother span, and I would sit by her
The livelong day.

Ire.
Didst ever hear the tale
Of the Fates and how they spin?

Child.
I do not think so.
Wilt tell me?

Ire.
There were three weird sisters once,
Clotho and Lachesis and Atropos,
Who spun the web of fate for each new life,
Sometimes, as I do now, a brighter thread
Woven with the dark, and sometimes black as night,
Until at last came Atropos and cut
The fine-worn life-thread thus.

[Cuts the thread; the head of the spindle rolls away.
Child.
And hast thou cut
Some life-thread now?

Ire.
My child, I am no Fate,
And yet I know not; but the spindle's head
Rolled hence to yonder corner. Let us seek it.
Hast found it?

Child.
Nay, there is so little light,
I think that it has fallen in the crevice
Beneath yon panel.

Ire.
Stoop and seek it, child.
Perchance the panel slides, and then, it may be,
We shall let in the light.

[Draws back the panel and discovers a bright light, files of armed men, and Asander in the midst.
Child.
Ay, there it is;
We have it, we have found it.

[Sliding panel back again.
Ire.
What have we found?
What have we found? Yes, little one, 'tis found!
Run away now—I fain would be alone—
And come back presently.
[Kisses Child, who goes.
These were the sounds
I heard and thought were fancy's. All is clear
As is the blaze of noon. The Prince Asander
Is traitor to the State, and will o'er-whelm it
When all the citizens are sunk in sleep
After to-morrow's feast. Well, what care I?
He is not for me, whether we call him King
Or Archon; and for these good men of Cherson,
What is their fate to me? If he succeed,
As now he must, since no one knows the secret,
'Twill only be a change of name—no more.
The King and Queen will hold a statelier Court
And live contented when the thing is done,
And that is all. For who will call it treason
When victory crowns the plot? But stay! a gleam
Of new-born hope. What, what if it should fail
As I could make it fail? What if this woman,
Full of fantastic reverence for the dead,
And nourished on her cold republican dream,
Should learn the treason ere 'twas done and mar it?
Would not Asander hate her for the failure?
And she him for the plot? I know her well,
I know her love for him, but well I know
She is so proud of her Athenian blood
And of this old republic, she would banish
Her love for less than this. Once septed,
The Prince safe over seas in Bosphorus,
His former love turned to injurious pride,
I might prevail! I would!
Re-enter Child.
Nay, little one,
We will spin no more to-day. I prithee go
And seek the Lady Gycia. Say to her,
By all the memory of our former love
I pray that she will come to me at once.
Lose not a moment.
[Exit Child.
Hark! the tramp again;
Again the ring of mail. I wonder much
If she shall hear it first, or first the eye
Shall slay her love within her.

Enter Gycia.
Gycia.
Thou dost ask
My presence; wherefore is it?

Ire.
Gycia,
Thou dost not love me, yet would I requite
Thy wrong with kindness. That thy love was false
To thee, thou knowest, but it may be still
There is a deeper falsehood than to thee,
And thou shalt know it. Dost thou hear that sound?
[The tramp of men again heard.
What means it, think you?

Gycia.
Nay, I cannot tell.
'Tis like the tramp of armèd men.

Ire.
It is;
And who are they?

Gycia.
Young citizens of Cherson,
Maybe, rehearsing for to-morrow's pageant
And the procession.

[Going.
Ire.
Stay, thou stubborn woman,
Canst bear to see, though the sight blight thy life?

Gycia.
I know not what thou wouldst, but I can bear it.

Ire.
Though it prove thy love a traitor?

Gycia.
That it will not!

Ire.
Then, make no sound, but see what I will show thee.
Look now! Behold thy love!

[Draws back panel, and discovers Asander with the soldiers of Bosphorus standing in line. Asander's voice heard.
Asan.
At stroke of midnight
To-morrow night be ready.

Soldiers.
Any, my lord.

[Gycia tottering back. Irene slides back the panel, and Gycia sets her back against it, half fainting; Irene regarding her with triumph.
Gycia.
Was that my husband? and those men around him
Soldiers of Bosphorus, to whom he gave
Some swift command? What means it all, ye saints?
What means it? This the husband of my love,
Upon whose breast I have lain night by night
For two sweet years—my husband whom my father
Loved as a son, whose every thought I knew,
Or deemed I did, lurking in ambush here
Upon the eve of our great festival,
Scheming some bloody treachery to take
Our Cherson in the toils? Oh, 'tis too much;
I cannot trust my senses! 'Twas a dream!

Ire.
No dream, but dreadful truth!

Gycia.
Thou cruel woman,
How have I harmed thee, thou shouldst hate me thus?
But 'twas no dream. Why was it else that he,
But for some hateful treachery, devised
This festival? Why was it that he grew
So anxious to go hence and take me with him,
But that guilt made him coward, and he feared
To see his work? Oh, love for ever lost,
And with it faith gone out! what is't remains
But duty, though the path be rough and trod
By bruised and bleeding feet? Oh, what is it
Is left for me in life but death alone,
Which ends it?

Ire.
Gycia, duty bids the banish
Thy love to his own State, and then disclose
The plot thou hast discovered. It may be
That thou mayst join him yet, and yet grow happy.

Gycia.
Never! For duty treads another path
Than that thou knowest. I am my father's daughter.
It is not mine to pardon or condemn;
That is the State's alone. 'Tis for the State
To banish, not for me, and therefore surely
I must denounce these traitors to the Senate,
And leave the judgment theirs.

Ire.
(kneeling).
Nay, nay, I pray thee,
Do not this thing! Thou dost not know how cruel
Is State-craft, or what cold and stony hearts
Freeze in their politic breasts.

Gycia.
Thou kneel'st to me
To spare my husband! Think'st thou I love him less
Than thou dost, wanton?

Ire.
Gycia, they will kill him.
Get him away to-night to Bosphorus.
Thou dost not know these men!

Gycia.
I know them not?
I who have lived in Cherson all my days,
And trust the State? Nay, I will get me hence,
And will denounce this treason to the Senate.
There lies my duty clear, and I will do it;
I fear not for the rest. The State is clement
To vanquished foes, and doubtless will find means
To send them hence in safety. For myself
I know not what may come—a broken heart,
Maybe, and death to mend it. But for thee,
Thou shameless wanton, if thou breathe a sound
Or make a sign to them, thou diest to-night
With torture.

Ire.
Spare him! Do not this thing, Gycia!
[Exit Gycia.
O God, she is gone! he is lost! and I undone!

[Swoons.