Chapter 13

IRENE; _then the Gaoler's_ Child; _afterwards_ GYCIA.

_Ire._ Ah me! The heaviness of prisoned days! Heigho! 'Tis weary work in prison here. What though I know no loss but liberty, Have everything at will--food, service, all That I should have, being free--yet doth constraint Poison life at its spring; and if I thought This woman's jealous humour would endure, I would sooner be a hireling set to tend The kine upon the plains, in heat or cold, Chilled through by the sharp east, scorched by the sun, So only I might wander as I would At my own will, than weary to be free From this luxurious cell. Hark!

[_The tramp of armed men is heard._

What was that sound? I could swear I heard the measured tramp of men And ring of mail, yet is it but illusion. Last night I thought I heard it as I lay Awake at dead of night. Mere fantasy Born of long solitude, for here there are No soldiers nor mailed feet.

[_Again heard._

Hark! once again. Nay, I must curb these fancies.

_Enter_ Child.

_Child._ Gentle lady.

_Ire._ Speak, little one. Come hither.

_Child._ Gentle lady, My father, who is Warder of this tower, Bade me come hither and ask thee if thou wouldst That I should hold thy distaff, or might render Some other service.

_Ire._ Ay, child; a good thought. Bring me my spinning-wheel.

[Child _brings it._

_Ire. (spinning)._ The light is fading fast, but I would choose This twilight, if thou wilt not be afraid Of the darkness, little one.

_Child._ Nay, that I am not, With one so good as thou.

_Ire._ Nay, child, it may be I am not all thou think'st me.

_Child._ But, dear lady, Are not all noble ladies good?

_Ire._ Not all, Nor many, maybe.

_Child._ To be sure they are not, Else were they not imprisoned.

_Ire._ Little one, Not all who pine in prison are not good, Nor innocent who go free.

_Child._ The Lady Gycia, Is she not good?

_Ire._ It may be that she is. 'Tis a vile world, my child.

_Child._ Nay, I am sure The Lady Gycia is as white and pure As are the angels. When my mother died She did commend me to her, and she promised To keep me always.

_Ire._ But she sent me here.

_Child._ Ah! lady, then I fear thou art not good. I am sorry for thee.

_Ire._ So, my child, am I.

[_The tramp of armed feet is heard again._

_Child._ Ah! lady, what is that? I am afraid. What means that noise?

_Ire._ What didst thou hear, my child?

_Child._ A tramp of armed men and ring of mail.

_Ire._ Then, 'tis no fancy of my weary brain. If it comes again I must inquire into it. 'Tis passing strange. Be not afraid, my child. 'Twas but the wind which echoed through the void Of the vast storehouses below us. Come,

[_Spinning._

Let us to spinning. Twirl and twirl and twirl; 'Tis a strange task.

_Child._ Lady, I love it dearly. My mother span, and I would sit by her The livelong day.

_Ire._ Didst ever hear the tale Of the Fates and how they spin?

_Child._ I do not think so. Wilt tell me?

_Ire._ There were three weird sisters once, Clotho and Lachesis and Atropos, Who spun the web of fate for each new life, Sometimes, as I do now, a brighter thread Woven with the dark, and sometimes black as night. Until at last came Atropos and cut The fine-worn life-thread thus.

[_Cuts the thread; the head of the spindle rolls away._

_Child._ And hast thou cut Some life-thread now?

_Ire._ My child, I am no Fate, And yet I know not; but the spindle's head Rolled hence to yonder corner. Let us seek it. Hast found it?

_Child._ Nay, there is so little light. I think that it has fallen in the crevice Beneath yon panel.

_Ire._ Stoop and seek it, child. Perchance the panel slides, and then, it may be, We shall let in the light.

[_Draws back the panel and discovers a bright light, files of armed men, and_ ASANDER _in the midst._

_Child._ Ay, there it is; We have it, we have found it.

[_Sliding panel back again._

_Ire._ What have we found? What have we found? Yes, little one, 'tis found! Run away now--I fain would be alone-- And come back presently.

[_Kisses_ Child, _who goes._

These were the sounds I heard and thought were fancy's. All is clear As is the blaze of noon. The Prince Asander Is traitor to the State, and will o'erwhelm it When all the citizens are sunk in sleep After to-morrow's feast. Well, what care I? He is not for me, whether we call him King Or Archon; and for these good men of Cherson, What is their fate to me? If he succeed, As now he must, since no one knows the secret, 'Twill only be a change of name--no more. The King and Queen will hold a statelier Court And live contented when the thing is done, And that is all. For who will call it treason When victory crowns the plot? But stay! a gleam Of new-born hope. What, what if it should fail As I could make it fail? What if this woman, Full of fantastic reverence for the dead, And nourished on her cold republican dream, Should learn the treason ere 'twas done and mar it? Would not Asander hate her for the failure? And she him for the plot? I know her well. I know her love for him, but well I know She is so proud of her Athenian blood And of this old republic, she would banish Her love for less than this. Once separated, The Prince safe over seas in Bosphorus, His former love turned to injurious pride, I might prevail! I would!

_Re-enter_ CHILD.

Nay, little one, We will spin no more to-day. I prithee go And seek the Lady Gycia. Say to her, By all the memory of our former love I pray that she will come to me at once. Lose not a moment.

[_Exit_ Child.

Hark! the tramp again; Again the ring of mail. I wonder much If she shall hear it first, or first the eye Shall slay her love within her.

_Enter_ GYCIA.

_Gycia._ Thou dost ask My presence; wherefore is it?

_Ire._ Gycia, Thou dost not love me, yet would I requite Thy wrong with kindness. That thy love was false To thee, thou knowest, but it may be still There is a deeper falsehood than to thee, And thou shalt know it. Dost thou hear that sound? [The tramp of men again heard. What means it, think you?

_Gycia._ Nay, I cannot tell. 'Tis like the tramp of armed men.

_Ire._ It is; And who are they?

_Gycia._ Young citizens of Cherson, Maybe, rehearsing for to-morrow's pageant And the procession.

[_Going._

_Ire._ Stay, thou stubborn woman, Canst bear to see, though the sight blight thy life?

_Gycia._ I know not what thou wouldst, but I can bear it.

_Ire._ Though it prove thy love a traitor?

_Gycia._ That it will not!

_Ire._ Then, make no sound, but see what I will show thee. Look now! Behold thy love!

[_Draws back panel, and discovers_ ASANDER _with the soldiers of Bosphorus marching._ ASANDER'S _voice heard._

_Asan._ At stroke of midnight To-morrow night be ready.

_Soldiers._ Ay, my lord.

[GYCIA _tottering back._ IRENE _slides back the panel, and_ GYCIA _sets her back against it, half fainting_; IRENE _regarding her with triumph._

_Gycia._ Was that my husband? and those men around him Soldiers of Bosphorus, to whom he gave Some swift command? What means it all, ye saints? What means it? This the husband of my love, Upon whose breast I have lain night by night For two sweet years--my husband whom my father Loved as a son, whose every thought I knew, Or deemed I did, lurking in ambush here Upon the eve of our great festival, Scheming some bloody treachery to take Our Cherson in the toils? Oh, 'tis too much; I cannot trust my senses! 'Twas a dream!

_Ire._ No dream, but dreadful truth!

_Gycia._ Thou cruel woman How have I harmed thee, thou shouldst hate me thus? But 'twas no dream. Why was it else that he, But for some hateful treachery, devised This festival? Why was it that he grew So anxious to go hence and take me with him, But that guilt made him coward, and he feared To see his work? Oh, love for ever lost, And with it faith gone out! what is't remains But duty, though the path be rough and trod By bruised and bleeding feet? Oh, what is it Is left for me in life but death alone, Which ends it?

_Ire._ Gycia, duty bids thee banish Thy love to his own State, and then disclose The plot thou hast discovered. It may be That thou mayst join him yet, and yet grow happy.

_Gycia._ Never! For duty treads another path Than that thou knowest. I am my father's daughter. It is not mine to pardon or condemn; That is the State's alone. 'Tis for the State To banish, not for me, and therefore surely I must denounce these traitors to the Senate, And leave the judgment theirs.

_Ire._ (_kneeling_). Nay, nay, I pray thee, Do not this thing! Thou dost not know how cruel Is State-craft, or what cold and stony hearts Freeze in their politic breasts.

_Gycia._ _Thou_ kneel'st to me To spare my husband! Think'st thou I love him less Than thou dost, wanton?

_Ire._ Gycia, they will kill him. Get him away to-night to Bosphorus. Thou dost not know these men!

_Gycia._ _I_ know them not? I who have lived in Cherson all my days, And trust the State? Nay, I will get me hence, And will denounce this treason to the Senate. There lies my duty clear, and I will do it; I fear not for the rest. The State is clement To vanquished foes, and doubtless will find means To send them hence in safety. For myself I know not what may come--a broken heart, Maybe, and death to mend it. But for thee, Thou shameless wanton, if thou breathe a sound Or make a sign to them, thou diest to-night With torture.

_Ire._ Spare him! Do not this thing, Gycia!

[_Exit_ GYCIA.

O God, she is gone! he is lost! and I undone!

[_Swoons._