Asan.
That might I do indeed.
But, sooth to say, I would not speak again
With her you name; and it may be indeed,
Since well I know her, that the Lady Gycia,
Who is angered with her for what cause I know not,
Might well resent the converse.
Lys.
Prince Asander,
There is no man so blind as he who closes
His eyes to the light and will not have it shine,
As thou dost now.
Asan.
Then will I see this lady,
Though knowing it is vain.
[Exit Asander.
Lys.
I do not know
What he will hear, but this at least I know:
That woman loves him, and will lie to sow
Dissension 'twixt these lovers—which accomplished,
The rest is easy, and I hold this Cherson
In the hollow of my hand. Ha! a good thought.
I will send a message to the Lady Gycia
Which shall ensure't. If she mislikes her friend,
It is odds of ten to one some jealous humour
Has caused it, or may grow of it.
[Writes.
"Dear lady,
Thou art wronged; the Prince Asander presently
Is with Irene alone. Seek them, and wring
Confession of their fault."
[Summons a Messenger.
Ho there! convey
These to the Lady Gycia, but stay not
To tell her whence they come.
Mess.
I go, my lord.
Scene IV.—Irene's prison.
Irene; afterwards Asander and Gycia.
Ire. To think that once I loved that haughty woman!
Ah, that was long ago, before love came
To tear our lives asunder. Though her power
Can pen me here a prisoner, yet I know
That I have pierced her heart. Oh, it is sweet
To be revenged, and know that vengeance brings
Victory in its train! If I had power
To make Asander jealous of this wonder,
Then all were easy. But I know no means
Whereby from this strait prison I might sow
Suspicion of her who has never given
A shadow of cause.
Attendant.
The Lord Asander comes.
Enter Asander.
Asan. Lady, I grieve that thou art in this place,
And fain would set thee free. Tell me what cause
Has brought thee hither.
Ire.
Ask me not, my lord;
I cannot tell thee.
Asan.
Nay, but know I must,
To plead thy cause.
Ire.
'Twas too great love of thee,
The love which thou didst spurn, that brought me here.
Asan. But how should that be so?
Ire.
The Lady Gycia,
Holding thee to thy promise that thou wouldst not
Go hence—no, not to close thy father's eyes—
Took umbrage that I spoke with scant respect
Of such unreasoning and unnatural bond
As that which she approves.
Asan.
Then am I grateful
For thy good-will, and grieve that it should bring thee
To pine a prisoner here, and will essay
What reason can to free thee.
Ire.
Thanks, my lord,
I would that thou wert free. I knew the King,
And did receive much fatherly affection
From that most reverend man. I grieve to hear
That he lies sick, and would rejoice to tend him
As if I were a daughter.
Asan.
Gentle lady,
No other voice of sympathy than thine
Have I yet heard in Cherson, and I thank thee
For thy good-will.
Ire.
'Tis always thine, my lord,
And more, though I should end my wretched days
In prison for thy sake.
Asan.
I thank thee, lady,
And fain would ask of thee a greater kindness:
I would that thou wouldst tell me of thy brother.
Ire. My brother Theodorus? What of him?
Asan. This only. Did he, ere I knew my wife,
Bear towards her a great though innocent love?
Ire. A great though innocent love? Ay, a great love,
For certain. Spoke she not of it to thee?
Asan. No word!
Ire.
Ah! yet, maybe, 'twas innocent—Nay,
I believe it, though she spoke not of it,
And 'tis the wont of wives to laugh and boast
Of innocent conquests.
Asan.
Nay, she spoke no word.
Ire. And did no other of thy friends at Cherson
Tell thee? Why, 'twas the talk of all the city
How close they grew together, till thy coming
And the necessities of Cherson turned
Her eyes from him to thee.
Asan.
And does he still
Bear love for her?
Ire.
And does he still bear love?
Ay, passionate love. The heart which truly loves
Puts not its love aside for ends of State,
Or marriage bonds, or what the dullard law
Suffers or does not suffer, but grows stronger
For that which seeks to thwart it.
Asan.
And did she
My wife return this love?
Ire.
Ay, so 'twas said.
Ask me no more, I pray!
Enter Gycia unperceived.
Asan.
Nay, by the love
Thou bearest to me, speak!
Gycia.
My Lord Asander,
What dost thou with this woman thus alone?
Asan. 'Twere best thou didst not ask.
Gycia.
I have a right
I will be answered. First, thou didst deny
Thou knewest aught of her; then said her nature
Was such I might not call her friend, or live
With her within four walls; and now, her fault—
Which she herself proclaimed—penning her here
In a close prison, thou my husband comest
To comfort her, 'twould seem—to travel o'er
Again the old foul paths and secretly
To gloat on the old passion.
Asan.
Nay, I came
Not for this cause, but one which I will tell thee.
I came to question of thy former love.
Gycia. To question her of me?
Asan.
To know the cause
That made my wife, scarce one short hour ago,
Within my home, when hardly I had left her,
Receive alone a lover kneeling to her
With words of passionate love, and whisper to him,
"I am a wife."
Gycia.
Hast thou no shame, Asander,
To speak such words to me before this woman,
Who knows her brother's life?
Ire.
Nay, prithee, madam,
Appeal not to me thus; I could say much
On which I would keep silence.
Gycia.
Thou base woman,
And thou poor dupe or most perfidious man,
It were to honour ye to make defence
Against a wanton and her paramour;
But thee, Asander, never will I take
To my heart again, till thou hast put from thee
This lying accusation, and dost ask
Pardon that thou hast dared with this base wretch
To impugn my honour.
Asan.
Thou hast said no word
Of answer to my charge; thy bold defiance
Argues thy guilt.
Gycia.
My guilt? And canst thou dare
To say this thing to me? I will speak no word;
Denial were disgrace. Sir, I will have you
Leave this place quickly.
Asan.
Madam, I obey you.
[Exit.
Gycia. And I too go.
[Exit.
Ire.
I hold these hapless fools
In the hollow of my hand.
Scene V.—Outside the palace.
Lysimachus and three Courtiers; afterwards Asander.
Lys. My lords, what have you to report? Have the men arrived?
1st Court. For a week past they have been arriving at the rate of fifty a day. The ships anchor in due course. At dead of night, when everything is still, the merchandise is landed and conveyed well disguised to the great storehouses of Lamachus' palace, with good store of arms and provisions.
2nd Court. Yes, and by the day of the festival we shall have more than five hundred well-armed men within the walls, who, while the people are feasting, will bear down all opposing forces and open the gates to the larger body, who will lie concealed in the grain-ships in the harbour.
Lys. Does no one suspect, think you, as yet?
1st Court. Not a soul. The merchandise is landed at dead of night.
3rd Court. Does the Prince know?
Lys. Not yet, not a word. I can't trust him with his blind love for his wife.
3rd Court. What if he will not be of us?
Lys. Then he shall be put under hatches at once for Bosphorus, and may take his wife with him if he pleases.
1st Court. But will he pardon the deed?
Lys. The lad is a good lad enough, but weak as water. The world always pardons successful enterprises. Besides, I am in great hopes that he has so quarrelled with the ruler of Cherson, and may be, moreover, so out of conceit with his wife, that we can do as we will with him.
2nd Court. But be prudent, my Lord Lysimachus, I beg, for we know not how far he is with us, and if he is against us now, it may take more than we know to keep our heads on our shoulders.
Lys. My lords, you shall not lose a drop of your blood. But here is my Lord Asander. He looks cast down enough, in all conscience.
Enter Asander.
Well, Prince, hast thou seen the lady?
Asan. Speak not to me of her, I pray. I must leave this accursed place at once and for ever, and must take my wife with me. Once in Bosphorus, I may know again the happiness which is denied me here. I will not stay here a day. Is there any ship from Bosphorus in harbour? Get me away to-night secretly, and the Lady Gycia with me.
Lys. My lord, there are many ships here from Bosphorus, but none empty or which can be spared now; but it wants but two days to the festival, and if thou wilt tarry until then, it may be we can so arrange that either thou mayst set sail for Bosphorus at your will or bring Bosphorus hither at will.
Asan. What do these words mean? You speak in riddles. I care not what becomes of me, but remember my honour, Lysimachus, my honour! If any scheme against the State of Cherson is in your mind, I will have none of it. I want nothing of these people, only to be allowed to turn my back upon them and their intrigues for ever, and to carry the wife whom I love far away from the air of chicane and base deceit which makes this Cherson a hell.
Lys. My Lord Asander, thou hast not forgot
Thy oath which thou didst swear ere first you left
Our Bosphorus, that, come what fate should come,
Thou wouldst not forget her. Now, as Fate would have it,
These gentlemen and I, hearing report
Of the grand festival which now approaches,
Have ta'en such measures as may make our city
Mistress of this her rival. Day by day
Ships laden deep with merchandise cast anchor
By Lamachus's palace, and unload
At dead of night their tale of armèd men,
And by to-morrow night, which is the eve
Of the feast, five hundred men-at-arms or more
Will there lie hid. These, when the festival
Has spent itself, and the drowsed citizens,
Heavy with meat and wine, are fast asleep,
Will issue forth at midnight and will seize
The guardians of the gates, and throw them open
To an o'erwhelmmg force which fills the ships
Which lie within the harbour. For the rest,
Cherson is ours, thou free to go or stay,
King if thou wilt; but this, my lord, know well—
If thou hast even no reverence for thy oath,
No power on earth can free thee from thy bonds
Or speed thee hence, if still this cursèd State
Keeps its free power. Therefore, look well to it.
Asan. I cannot do this thing. I am no thief
Or midnight murderer, but a prince and soldier.
Place me in open battle, and I care not
For bloodshed; but this murderous intrigue,
I will have none o't.
Lys.
Nay, my lord, in sooth,
Why think of bloodshed? If our scheme go right
(And nought can mar it now), what need of blood?
These smooth knaves, though they fight behind their walls
With cunning enginery, yet when they see
Our army in their streets, will straight grow prudent
And hug discretion. But, indeed, my lord,
We have gone too far to pause, and if thou like not
Our scheme, which makes for thee and for our State,
We cannot risk that thou denounce our plan,
And therefore, if thou wilt not join with us,
The safety of ourselves and of the State
Holds thee a prisoner pent in durance vile
Till victory is ours, and thou mayst take
The fruit of others' daring, while thy wife
Deserts her doubting and dishonoured lord
For one who dares to act and play his part
As a man should.
Asan. (after hesitation). I do not hold with you,
That a man's oath can bind him to his God
To do what else were wrong. Yet, since you swear
Your purpose is not bloodshed, and my will
Is impotent to stay your choice, and chiefly
Because I am cast down and sick at heart,
And without any trust in God or man,
I do consent to your conspiracy,
Loving it not.
Lys.
There spoke my lord the Prince.
We will succeed or die.
Asan.
I would sooner die.
ACT IV.
Scene I.—Cherson. Irene's prison.
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?
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 armèd 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?
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 armèd men.
Ire.
It is;
And who are they?
[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.
Scene II.—Room in Lamachus's palace.
Lysimachus, Megacles, Courtiers; afterwards Asander.
Lys. Well, good Megacles, I hope you are prepared to carry out your function. It will be a busy and anxious day to-morrow, no doubt, and most of us will be glad when midnight strikes.
Meg. My Lord Lysimachus, I hope so. I have not closed an eye for the last two nights. As to the Procession, I flatter myself that no better-arranged pomp has ever defiled before Cæsar's Palace. It will be long, it will be splendid, it will be properly marshalled. There is no other man in the Empire who knows the distinctions of rank or the mysteries of marshalling better than I do. Look at the books I have studied. There is the treatise of the Learned and Respectable Symmachus on Processions. That is one. There is the late divine Emperor Theodosius on Dignities and Titles of Honour. That is two. There is our learned and illustrious Chamberlain Procopius's treatise on the office and duties of a Count of the Palace. That, as no doubt you know, is in six large volumes. That is three, or, nay, eight volumes. Oh, my poor head! And I have said nothing of the authorities on Costume—a library, I assure you, in themselves. Yes, it has been an anxious time, but a very happy one. I wish our young friends here would devote a little more time to such serious topics, and less to such frivolities as fighting and making love. The latter is a fine art, no doubt, and, when done according to rule, is well enough; but as for fighting, getting oneself grimed with dust and sweat, and very likely some vulgar churl's common blood to boot—pah! it is intolerable to think of it.
1st Court. Well, good Megacles, I am afraid that the world cannot spare its soldiers yet for many years to come. So long as there is evil in the world, and lust of power and savagery and barbarism, so long, depend upon it, there is room and need for the soldier.
Meg. Certainly, my lord, certainly; and besides, they are very highly decorative too. Nothing looks better to my mind at a banquet than bright gay faces and lithe young figures set in a shining framework of mail. By the way, my Lord Lysimachus, it was kind of you to provide our procession with a strong detachment of fine young soldiers from Bosphorus. I have secured a prominent place for them, and the effect will be perfect. I trust the Lady Melissa will like it.
Lys. My lord, you are mistaken; there are no soldiers from Bosphorus here.
Meg. But I was with the Prince last night, and saw them.
Lys. I tell you you are mistaken. There are none here. Do you understand me? There are none here.
2nd Court. Nay, indeed, my Lord Megacles. We were trying, with a view to the pageant, how a number of young men of Cherson would look in the array of Bosphorus; but we gave it up, since we feared that they would bear them so clumsily that they would mar the whole effect.
Meg. Ah, that explains it; quite right, quite right. Well, I see I was mistaken. But I wish I could have had soldiers from Bosphorus. They are the one thing wanting to make to-morrow a perfect success, as the Lady Melissa said.
Lys. They are indeed, as you say. But, my Lord Megacles, pray do not whisper abroad what you have said here; these people are so jealous. They would grow sullen, and spoil the pageant altogether.
Meg. Ah, my lord, you have a good head. I will not breathe a word of it till the day is done.
Lys. Thanks, my lord, and as I know you will be weary with the long day's work and your great anxieties, I am going to lay a little friendly compulsion upon you. You must leave the banquet to-morrow and go to rest by eleven o'clock at latest.
Meg. Well, my lord, I am not so young as I was, and if I have your permission to leave before all is over, well and good. No one knows what an anxious day is before me, and I have no doubt I shall have earned my night's rest by then. But I have much yet to do, so with your permission I will wish you good night.
[Exit Megacles, bowing low to each with exaggerated gestures.
Lys. Poor soul, poor soul! If any fight comes, it would be as cruel to let him take his part with men as it would be if he were a woman or a child.
Enter Asander.
Welcome, my Lord Asander. Hast thou seen our men, and are they ready for to-morrow?
Asan. I have just come from them, and they are ready,
But I am not. I pray you, let this be;
Send back these men to-night. I am oppressed
By such o'ermastering presages of ill
As baffle all resolve.
Lys.
My Lord Asander,
It is too late. Wouldst thou, then, break thy oath?
Wouldst thou live here a prisoner, nor behold
Thy father, though he die? Wouldst thou thy country
Should spurn thee as the traitor whose malignance
Blighted her hard-won gains? It is too late!
It is too late!
Asan.
I am grown infirm of will
As any dotard. I will go on now
So that thou dost no murder.
Lys.
Why was it
We came in such o'erwhelming force, but that
We sought to shed no blood?
Asan.
I will be ready,
Though with a heavy heart. To-morrow night
At stroke of twelve, when all the feast is done,
And all asleep, we issue from the palace,
Seize the guards at their posts, and open wide
The gates to the strong force which from the ships
At the same hour shall land. The citizens,
Heavy with wine, will wake to find their city
Our own beyond recall.
Lys.
Ay, that's the scheme,
And nought can mar it now. Good night, my lord.
Sleep well; there is much to do.
Asan.
Good night, my lords!
[Exit Asander.
Lys. No bloodshed! Why, what fools love makes of men!
I have seen this very lad dash through the ranks
Of hostile spearmen, cut and hack and thrust
As in sheer sport. There will be blood shed, surely,
Unless these dogs have lost their knack of war
As he has; but we have them unprepared,
And shall prevail, and thou shalt be avenged
My father slain, and thou, my murdered brother,
Shalt be avenged! My lords, you know what work
Is given each to do. Be not too chary
Of your men's swords; let them strike sudden terror.
Slay all who do resist, or if they do not,
Yet slay them still. My lords, give you good night.
To-morrow at midnight, at the stroke of twelve—
At the stroke of twelve!
[Exeunt omnes.
Scene III.—The council chamber of the Senate of Cherson.
Zetho and Senators; afterwards Gycia.