ou 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 g