he King dies,
Then art thou straightway King of Bosphorus,
Knowing the strength and weakness of our State,
And having bound to thee by closest friendship
Our chiefest citizens. Nay, nay, I dare not
Relieve thee from the pledge.

_Asan._ Thou hoary trickster,
Speakest thou thus to me?

[_Draws._

_Gycia (interposing)._ Great heavens! Asander,
Knowest thou what thou dost? (_To_ ZETHO) Pardon him, sir.
He is not himself, I think, but half distraught,
To bear himself thus madly.

_Zetho._ Daughter, the State
Knows to protect itself from insolence
And arrogant pride like this, and it is certain
'Twas a wise caution led thy honoured father
To stipulate that such ungoverned passion
Should be cut off from those conspiring forces
From which combined came danger.

_Asan._ Gycia,
Hearest thou this schemer? Dost thou know indeed
That I am prisoned here, while my loved father
Lies on the bed of death? Dost thou distrust me,
That thou dost speak no word?

_Gycia._ My lord, I cannot.
The measure which my father's wisdom planned
For the safety of the State, I, a weak woman,
Am too infirm to judge. Thou didst not tell me,
Asking that I should fly with thee, the bonds
By which thy feet were fettered. Had I known
I never had consented. Had I gone,
Breaking the solemn ordinance of State,
I should have left with thee my former love,
And sailed back broken-hearted. That thou grievest
There is none knows as I, but oh, my love!
Though it be hard to bear, yet is grief lighter
Than broken vows, and blighted honour, and laws
Made to sustain the State, yet overset
By one man's will. Dearest, we cannot go--
Nor thou; the State forbids it. I will pray
Thy father may grow strong again, and sit
Here at our hearth a guest; but this is certain--
To Bosphorus we go not. And I pray you
Make to my lord, who fills my father's place,
What reparation thy ungoverned rage
And hasty tongue demand.

_Asan._ Thou cold Greek woman!
Of this, then, 'twas they warned me--a smooth tongue
And a cold heart; a brain by logic ruled,
And not at all by love. Thou hast no pity,
For pity shapes not into syllogisms;
Nor can affection ape philosophy,
Nor natural love put on the formal robe
Of cold too-balanced State-craft. Hear me, old man,
And