_Arc._ In Phania, I'd have had a daughter now----

_Ste._ What, madam? Gabble here? Be done!

_Agis._ [_Among the young men_] I thirst.

[_To Biades_] Up, slave! Fill me a cup. Come, move, you drone!

[_Biades slowly rises and goes to spring under trees, rear_]

_A Young Lord._ What Helot's that?

_Another._ Some dog o' the farms. A staff On 's back might help his legs.

_Another._ I'll put mine to 't.

[_Biades lazily returns with cup. In handing it to Agis he spills part of the contents_]

_Agis._ [_Emptying the cup in Biades' face_] By Dis and Rhadamanthus! Sot!

Whose man Is this?

_Bia._ My own, you Spartan whelp!

[_Gives Agis a blow, so unexpected that it knocks him down. His head strikes the root of a tree and he does not rise. A number of Spartans rush upon Biades. Others bear Agis off, left_]

_Voices._ The dog!

Tread him to earth! Down! down!

_Bia._ [_Springing from them and taking off his cap_]

What, Greeks? You'd kill A brother?

_A Voice._ Biades!

_Bia._ My friends----

_Voices._ Ha, ha! His friends!

_Lys._ What friending was 't you gave us on the day You drove us out of Athens? Hoot and club Then spoke how dear you loved us. We had not Brought off our lives if your desire had dared Blow full on Athens' heat.

_Gir._ Brought off our lives?

Where's Heracordus? Stoned at Athens' gate, And dead upon the road.

_Bia._ Nay, brothers----

_Gir._ Ha!

If you're a brother, weep beside his grave.

I'll show it you.

_Lys._ And all the graves where lie The dead we brought two bleeding years ago From Decalea's wall, where you gave entry Then broke the truce with charge!

_Bia._ But hear, my lords----

_Gir._ Come, wail beside them till they wake and ask What new calamity brews in your tears!

[_Enter Lenon_]

_Len._ Agis yet swoons. That root was edged with death.

We fear he's gone.

_Gir._ For this alone, Athenian, You should not live,--though all your else-wrought deeds Were mercy's p.a.w.n for you.

_Bia._ Ye fathers, hear!

If ye know Justice,--and the world has said Her lovers dwell in Sparta,--shall he cry To scorn-shut ears, whose injuries taking voice Should pa.s.s in thunder where your virtues sleep?

Hear one whose wrongs have bruised him to your coast, And let it not be said that you from safe Unshaken rocks met suppliant hands with spears!

_Ste._ Ye n.o.ble elders, there's a sort of mercy On which dishonor feeds. As pasty, soft As b.u.t.ter in the sun, it chokes the sluice Of reason,--in marshy obliteration lays The marks and bounds of justice,--nauseous spreads Till mind is left no throne. Let it not come Where sit the guards of honor!

_Bia._ I grant you so.

But what I ask is not thus natured, sir!

Sages of Lacedaemon, there's a mercy That veins the very rock of Justice' seat.

It is the agent of divinest mould In all the world. By it the mind grows fair With blossoms deity may gather. 'Tis As precious to the soul as south-lipped winds To the winter-aching earth. Go bare of it, Though ye know Virtue ye wear not her pearl.

I beg my life that you in saving me May save the heavenliest favor given to men, Nor crush it out of Sparta, leaving her The scarred and barren terror G.o.ds forsake.

_Second Ephor._ Shall hear his plea? He may have argument Of worthy note.

_Second Senator._ 'Tis not our way to judge The dumb.

_Third Ephor._ [_Very old, creakingly_]

Why, if a lion, boar, or pard, Or any beast, should pause as we did burn In chase, and beg us hear his cause, I think Our ears would ope.

_Ste._ Ay, and the earth too, sir, Bearing such wonder on it! Folly's self Would be too wise to listen to this man, Yet ye would hear him!

_Fourth Ephor._ More than would. We will.

_Bia._ This clemency shows like yourselves,--the gem Of mind's adornment, as ye are the l.u.s.tre Of Sparta's matchless race!

_Ste._ Now he is off.

Will gallop with us to what ditch he choose.

_First Senator._ Speak, Biades.

_Bia._ Of Agis then, my lords,-- This newly raw offence,--be my first word.

And I'll not stay for garnish. Truth is bare, And bravest so. Though 'twas my Helot guise Drew Agis' insult on me, think you, sirs, It fell upon a proud and free-born Greek, And who is here that could with putting on A slave's vile dress put on his nature too, Drain off his ancient, high n.o.bility, And in one brutish instant lose the blood That made his fathers heroes? Is there one?

_First Ephor._ We grant you, none.

_Bia._ Your hearts then struck my blow, Therefore must pardon it. If Agis' death Falls from it, 'tis but accident that sleeps In every motion, and in mine awoke Untimely. Who, so shorn of wisdom, thinks That I, a suitor here for barest life, Meant him a vital stroke that would o'ercry My prayers and make a mock of suppliance?

I'll mourn with you, my lords, but ask you wring The neck of Fate, and leave my head where 'tis To praise the just of Sparta.

_Third Senator._ So we might But for the heavier charges that engage The sighs of mercy 'gainst you ere they blow This deed a pardon. What of Decalea?