[_Exeunt._

SCENE II.--_The same._

MEGACLES, COURTIERS; _afterwards_ ASANDER.

_Meg._ Well, my lords, two years have pa.s.sed since we left our Bosphorus, and I see no sign of our returning there. If it were not for that delightful Lady Melissa, whose humble slave I am always (Courtiers _laugh_), I would give all I am worth to turn my back upon this scurvy city and its republican crew. But my Lord Asander is so devoted to his fair lady--and, indeed, I can hardly wonder at it--that there seems no hope of our seeing the old sh.o.r.es again. I thought he would have been off long ago.

_1st Court._ A model husband the Prince, a paragon of virtue.

_2nd Court._ Well, there is no great merit in being faithful to a rich and beautiful woman. I think I could be as steady as a rock under the like conditions.

_3rd Court._ Well, mind ye, it is not every man who could treat the very marked overtures of the fair Lady Irene as he did. And he had not seen his wife then, either. No; the man is a curious mixture, somewhat cold, and altogether constant, and that is not a bad combination to keep a man straight with the s.e.x. Poor soul! do you remember how she pursued him at Bosphorus, and how she fainted away at the wedding? They say she is coming back speedily, in her right mind. She has been away ever since, no one knows where. That solemn brother of hers conveyed her away privily.

_1st Court._ I hate that fellow--a canting hypocrite, a solemn impostor!

_2nd Court._ So say we all. But mark you, if the Lady Irene comes back, there will be mischief before long. What news from Bosphorus, my Lord Megacles?

_Meg._ I have heard a rumour, my lord, that his Majesty the King is ailing.

_1st Court._ Nay, is he? Then there may be a new King and a new Queen, and we shall leave this dog-hole and live at home like gentlemen once more.

_3rd Court._ Then would his sacred Majesty's removal be a blessing in disguise.

_2nd Court._ Ay, indeed would it. Does the Prince know of it?

_Meg._ I have not told him aught, having, indeed, nothing certain to tell; but he soon will, if it be true. But here his Highness comes.

_Enter_ ASANDER.

My Lord Asander, your Highness's humble servant welcomes you with effusion.

[_Bows low._

_Asan._ Well, my good Megacles, and you, my lords. There will be ample work for you all ere long. The Lady Gycia is projecting a great festival in memory of her father, and all that the wealth of Cherson can do to honour him will be done. There will be solemn processions, a banquet, and a people's holiday. Dost thou not spy some good ceremonial work there, my good Megacles? Why, thou wilt be as happy as if thou wert at Byzantium itself, marshalling the processions, arranging the banquet, ushering in the guests in due precedence, the shipowner before the merchant, the merchant before the retailer. Why, what couldst thou want more, old Trusty? [_Laughs._

_Meg._ Ah, my Lord Prince, your Highness is young. When you are as old as I am, you will not scoff at Ceremony. This is the pleasantest day that I have spent since your Highness's wedding-day. I thank you greatly, and will do my best, your Highness.

_Asan._ That I am sure of, good Megacles. Good day, my lords, good day. [_Exeunt_ MEGACLES _and_ Courtiers.

_Enter_ Messenger.

_Mess._ My Lord Asander, a messenger from Bosphorus has just landed, bringing this letter for your Highness.

_Asan._ Let me see it. (_Reads_) "Lysimachus to Asander sends greeting. Thy father is failing fast, and is always asking for his son. Thou art free, and must come to him before he dies. I have much to say to thee, having heard long since of a festival in memory of Lamachus to be held shortly. I will be with thee before then. Be ready to carry out the plan which I have formed for thy good, and will reveal to thee. Remember."

My father ailing?

And asks for me, and I his only son Chained here inactive, while the old man pines In that great solitude which hems a throne, With none but hirelings round him.

Dearest father, I fear that sometimes in the happy years Which have come since, my wandering regards, Fixed on one overmastering thought, have failed To keep their wonted duty. If indeed This thing has been, I joy the time has come When I may show my love. But I forget!

The fetters honour binds are adamant; I am free no more. Nay, nay, there is no bond Can bind a son who hears his father's voice Call from a bed of pain. I must go and will, Though all the world cry shame on my dishonour; And with me I will take my love, my bride, To glad the old man's eyes. My mind is fixed; I cannot stay, I cannot rest, away From Bosphorus. (_Summons_ Messenger) Go, call the Lady Gycia.

(_Resumes_) Ay, and my oath, I had forgotten it.

I cannot bear to think what pitiless plot Lysimachus has woven for the feast.

What it may be I know not, but I fear Some dark and dreadful deed. 'Twere well enough For one who never knew the friendly grasp Of hands that once were foemen's. But for me, Who have lived among them, come and gone with them, Trodden with them the daily paths of life, Mixed in their pleasures, shared their hopes and fears For two long happy years, to turn and doom Their city to ruin, and their wives and children To the insolence of rapine? Nay, I dare not.

I will sail at once, and get me gone for ever.

I will not tell my love that I am bound By her father's jealous fancies to return To Bosphorus no more. To break my oath!

That were to break it only in the word, But keep it in the spirit. Surely Heaven For such an innocent perjury keeps no pains.

But here she comes.

_Enter_ GYCIA.

_Gycia._ Didst send for me, my lord?

_Asan._ Gycia, the King is ill, and asks for me; He is alone and weak.

_Gycia._ Then, fly to him At once, and I will follow thee. But stay!

Is he in danger?

_Asan._ Nay, not presently; Only the increasing weight of years o'ersets His feeble sum of force.

_Gycia._ Keeps he his bed?

_Asan._ Not yet as I have known.

_Gycia._ Well then, dear heart, We yet may be in time if we should tarry To celebrate the honours we have vowed To my dead father. This day sennight brings The day which saw him die.

_Asan._ Nay, nay, my sweet; 'Twere best we went at once.

_Gycia._ My lord, I honour The love thou bearest him, but go I cannot, Until the feast is done. 'Twould cast discredit On every daughter's love for her dead sire, If I should leave this solemn festival With all to do, and let the envious crowd Carp at the scant penurious courtesy Of hireling honours by an absent daughter To her ill.u.s.trious dead.

_Asan._ (_earnestly_). My love, 'twere best We both were far away.

_Gycia._ My lord is pleased To speak in riddles, but till reason speaks 'Twere waste of time to listen.

_Asan._ Nay, my wife, Such words become thee not, but to obey Is the best grace of woman. Were I able, I would tell thee all, I fear, for thee and me, But cannot.

_Gycia._ Then, love, thou canst go alone, And I must follow thee. The Archon Zetho Comes presently, to order what remains To make the solemn festival do honour To the blest memory of Lamachus.

Doubtless, he will devise some fitting pretext To excuse thy absence.

_Asan._ Nay, thou must not ask him; Breathe not a word, I pray.

_Gycia._ My good Asander, What is it moves thee thus? See, here he comes.

_Enter_ ZETHO _and_ Senators.

_Gycia._ Good morrow, my Lord Zetho! We were late, Debating of the coming festival, And how my lord the Prince, having ill news From Bosphorus, where the King his sire lies sick, Can bear no part in it.

_Zetho._ I grieve indeed To hear this news, and trust that Heaven may send Swift comfort to his son, whom we all love.

_Asan._ I thank thee, Archon, for thy courtesy; And may thy wish come true.