_Bia._ That was a ruse the Spartans taught me, sir, When at Eleusis they ensnared my troops Within the gates, and naught pa.s.sed out again Save rivers of their blood. If I must die For Decalea, die you with me, men, For red Eleusis.

_Fourth Senator._ This is justice too.

I saw Eleusis. He is clear on that.

_Ste._ I warn you, senators! The fleetest wit That pauses on his guile is honey-mired And ne'er gets farther.

_First Ephor._ We'll not keep his road An inch past justice, but we'll go so far.

_Ste._ So you resolve, but Hecate at his smile Would plod beside him like a market la.s.s, Forgetting vengeance.

_Bia._ Honored Stesilaus:----

_Ste._ Honored? Ay, Biades! With gibe and jeer That shook the walls of Athens! By my staff, I'll----

_Bia._ n.o.ble fathers, hear me for yourselves, Who, loved of Pallas, in this council sit Her earthly heirs and nature's demiG.o.ds!

This rage of Stesilaus is itself Sanction and seal for my adoption here, A son of Sparta.

_Ste._ Ha! Now he would drive The mares of Diomed!

_Bia._ My lords,----

_Ste._ Prove this?

_Bia._ Why made you Stesilaus head and tongue Of envoy unto Athens? For you thought His mind, most apt, fluidic, politic, More quick than danger, would take shape of need, Repairing your defense fast as you found Your safety cramped. If I o'ercame him then With wit that watched with sleepless spear at door Of Athens' housed trust, must you not crown in me The quality held sovereign in him?

_Ste._ You hear, you elders,--must!

_Bia._ Ay, must,--and must!

Or at the fontal spring of justice break Your cups and thirst. No alien dripple may Content you then.

_First Senator._ We listen, Biades.

_Bia._ When swords of an uneven temper meet, Who scorns the better proved? Nay, you do set Your love upon it,--in your armory Give it a burnished place. And I who crossed With Stesilaus, for my triumph ask To be of Sparta's armor.

_Ste._ Our dead shall answer!

_Bia._ They shall. For every heart my steel made cold, Is proof how well I served my Athens,--proof Of loyal heat with which I'll serve the State That makes me hers! A true-bred Greek, outthrust And homeless, seeks a foster-land, that he May lift for her his sword, nor wasteful let The chiefest virtue in him die unused While his lost name no more climbs to the G.o.ds.

_Second Senator._ Would you ally with us 'gainst Attica?

_Bia._ I'm yours for that. By th' mother of the sea, Her tears shall wash your feet!

_Third Senator._ What way wouldst take?

_Bia._ The way to Phernes and the Persian fleet Now boastful before Rhodes. Grant me a convoy, I'll forge with Persia Lacedaemon's sword, And cut the crest from Athens.

_Fourth Senator._ We have failed With Phernes.

_Bia._ You'll not fail again. He's sworn My friend.

_First Senator._ Our ships are few.

_Bia._ But Corinth holds Her sea-wings spread for any need of yours.

_Ste._ Hear me, ye warriors! He will lead Our force afar, then stir up neighbor foes To scourge unarmored Sparta! Think that one, Cradled in silk and fed on nectared drops----

_Bia._ There, sir, I'm bold to say you're off the road Of truth. My nurse was of your people, brought From sterner Sparta for my orphan rearing, By my good uncle Pelagon,--a man Ye know your friend. From her wise hands I took Your doughty-nurturing bread, and broth black-brewed, That drives the shade of fear from veins of men.

_Ste._ I've bread now in my wallet. Let us see Your teeth in 't.

[_Takes out a piece of coa.r.s.e, stale bread and offers it to Biades_]

_Bia._ Pardon, sir! I do not hunger.

A Helot shared with me.

_Ste._ 'Twill keep till you Would sup. But, you must try our broth, sir. Pulse Is seething yonder. Youths, bring here a bowl.

We have a guest who'd call his childhood up In good black brew. Hark, Lenon!

[_Whispers to Lenon, who goes off left_]

_Third Ephor._ It is truth.

Amycla was your nurse. I know the year That she was sent to Athens.

_Bia._ On her lap I learned a love for Sparta that returned In warrior days to blunt my a.s.saulting sword And wound me from your side. She taught me too The lyric wafture that dead hero-lips Send on undying,--songs your young men sing, And old men flush to hear,--and as a youth I longed to make my civil Athens street Echo to Sparta with a brother's call.

_Third Ephor._ But I am moved.

_Fourth Ephor._ And I.

_Ste._ Art grown so old You'll feed on pap again? Come, Biades, A song Amycla taught you! One will prove Your love remembers Sparta.

_Bia._ Sir, I'm not Your zany.

_Ste._ But you'd make my country one, To antic for you.

[_Re-enter Lenon with bowl of broth_]

_Ste._ Here's your portion, sir.

Amycla made no better. Will you drink?

[_Gives bowl to Biades, who regards the black mixture dubiously. All are silent, watching him. He looks at Pyrrha_]

_Bia._ [_To Pyrrha_] Is 't poison?

_Pyrr._ [_Stolid_] It may be.

_Bia._ [_To Senators_] Your will's in this?

_First Senator._ It is.