[_Re-enter Pelagon_]

_Bia._ No word unto my uncle!

_Ste._ My brain will serve.

_Pel._ They've come,--your comrades,--all!

If honor now were substance, my poor walls Would groaningly unroof and beg the sky For room to embrace it! Go you, Biades.

Repeat my welcome, with increase of grace Your tongue is rich in.

[_Exit Biades, upper left_]

Now the full time comes.

We'll speak of that that's centre of our hearts,-- Our daughters, friend. This is the hour that ends A watch of twenty years.

_Ste._ A patient score.

So long your daughter has been mine, so long Has mine been yours.

_Pel._ Like flower upon a stalk Long nursed and tended, comes the end upon This day of budding peace. You've had no whiff, No hint untoward, that what we did had best Been left undone?

_Ste._ Sir, what I do, I do!

When we changed babes not past their cradle sleep, My mind then glossed the act with comment fair As our unfructured hope. So does it still.

By Nestor, though I'm thitherward of prime, There's none will say that with accreted years I moult sagacity!

_Pel._ Eh, so! 'Twas well.

I've never doubted it. Here have I reared Your Phania, Spartan-thewed, who now shall home With Athens' gentle nurture in her veins To hither yearn in blood of every son She bears to Sparta. And you my Pyrrha bring Back to her land to live a Spartan dame Among Athenian mothers. So we feed The unity we dream on,--quicken time, Foresued, to give our tousing, touchy States One civic heart.

_Ste._ Has Sachinessa kept A secret tongue?

_Pel._ A nut not closer sits About its kernel. And your wife, my friend?

What of Archippe? Did she hold for long Against the exchange?

_Ste._ She did. Nor ever learned To love your Pyrrha. For that cause,--and that Our even trust might move with even faith, Nor odds of grace to you,--I've stood her guard, And made her comrade where a son might claim The dearest post.

_Pel._ Good thanks, my Stesilaus.

From your wife's audit I'd not brush a doit, But to the credit of my dame can set A fairer sum. aeneas' curled lad Lay not more dearly in his Dido's lap Than your sweet Phania in the swaddling love Of Sachinessa. Ay, she'll swear me now That not to gain her own will she give up Her foster darling.

_Ste._ Humph!

_Pel._ The little duck!

She has so chucked herself into my heart 'Twill put me sad about to oust her.

_Ste._ Duck!

When I lose Pyrrha, sir, that hour I lose This good right arm!

_Pel._ [_Meditative_] Hmm! So!... Come, my friend.

The dinner's toward, and the host astray.

The love's deep-vouched that puts such duty off For one more word. [_Pauses as they move left_]

We'll give no open voice To our most dear concern till we have met Our daughters.

_Ste._ [_Gloomy_] Met our daughters! Have it so.

[_Exeunt upper left. Enter, middle left, Phania and Biades_]

_Bia._ Come, Phania! The old c.o.c.ks are off.

_Pha._ They're gone?

_Bia._ Good flitting too! I feared they'd perch till night, Crowing the deeds of Stesilaus the Great And Pelagon the Wise.

_Pha._ These Spartans! If They'd rest their clubs without the door, our shins Would give them thanks. Why are we so besieged?

_Bia._ Why, Phania, why? Because your father dotes On dull and sodden peace that never was Save in an old man's dream. We dine our foes!

The city must throw ope her gates, forsooth, Lest the dear enemy should take some hurt Scaling the walls! They'd bleed us as we sleep, And Pelagon would vow the sword at 's throat Were Sachinessa's dozing kiss.

_Pha._ Ho, hear The captain speak! You go to Syracuse, And not content? 'Tis well there's one cries peace.

_Bia._ What's Syracuse? To conquer Sparta,--that Were warrior's work! Your father robs me of it, Bringing the water where I set my fires.

But come! I've not made love to a soul to-day Save ancient Sparta. Ha! it is an art That should be spared such sweat. The Heavens mean That I shall pull to yoke these two days left, And love take beggar's chance.

_Pha._ Ah, but two days!

_Bia._ Come to our myrtle nook----

_Pha._ Nay, Sybaris Might turn me out. That is her royal seat When you'll play consort.

_Bia._ What, my Phania? Dour?

Does Creon keep away?

_Pha._ I'm not for him.

You know it, Biades.

_Bia._ But he does not.

Too oft I find him here.

_Pha._ And Sybaris Comes out of count, knowing you like this spot.

Yon path is worn of every blade.

_Bia._ Her feet Can be so cruel?

_Pha._ You love her still!

_Bia._ Nay, sweet.

Not for three days. Believe me, cousin!

_Pha._ _Cousin!_ Athene save us! See her now,--the plague!

_Bia._ By gentle Eros, Phania, we'll be kind.

I loved her once.

_Pha._ How tall she is!