e us,
And his false retinue of slaves.

_Lama._ My daughter,
Thy words are wanting in thy wonted love
And dutiful observance. 'Twere an insult
Unwashed by streams of bloodshed, should our City
Scorn thus the guests it summoned. Come they must,
And with all hospitable care and honour,
Else were thy sire dishonoured. Thou wilt give them
A fitting welcome.

_Gycia._ Pardon me, my father,
That I spoke rashly. I obey thy will.

[_Going._

_Lama._ Stay, Gycia. Dost thou know what 'tis to love?

_Gycia._ Ay, thee, dear father.

_Lama._ Nay, I know it well.
But has no noble youth e'er touched thy heart?

_Gycia._ None, father, Heaven be praised! The young Irene
Was with me when thou cam'st, and all her life
Seems blighted by this curse of love--for one
Whose name she hides, with whom in Bosphorus
She met, when there she sojourned. Her young brother,
The noble Theodorus, whom thou knowest,
Lets all the world go by him and grows pale
For love, and pines, and wherefore?--For thy daughter,
Who knows not what love means, and cannot brook
Such brain-sick folly. Nay, be sure, good father,
I love not thus, and shall not.

_Lama._ Well, well, girl,
Thou wilt know it yet. I fetter not thy choice,
But if thou couldst by loving bind together
Not two hearts only, but opposing peoples;
Supplant by halcyon days long years of strife,
And link them in unbroken harmony;--
Were this no glory for a woman, this
No worthy price of her heart?

_Gycia._ Tell me, I pray,
What mean you by this riddle?

_Lama._ Prince Asander
Comes here to ask your hand, and with it take
A gracious dower of peace and amity.
He does not ask thee to forsake thy home,
But leaves for thee his own. All tongues together
Are full of praise of him: virgin in love,
A brave youth in the field, as we have proved
In many a mortal fight; a face and form
Like a young god's. I would, my love, thy heart
Might turn to him, and find thy happiness
In that which makes me happy. I am old
And failing, and I fain would see thee blest
Before I die, and at thy knees an heir
To all my riches, and the State of Cherson
From anxious cares delivered, and through thee.

_Gycia._ Father, we are of the Athenian race,
Which was the flower of Hel