[She rushes across to where the children lie sleeping, and shakes them violently.]

My children, did ye hear?  Awake!

BOY (waking).

What wouldst thou?

MEDEA (pressing them fiercely to her).

Clasp your arms about me close!

BOY.  I slept so soundly.

MEDEA.  Slept?  How could ye sleep? 
             Thought ye, because your mother watched you here,
             That ye were safe?  Ye ne’er were in the hands
             Of any foe more dangerous!  Sleep?  With me,
             Your mother, near?  How could ye?—­Go within,
             And there ye shall find rest, indeed!

[The children sleepily mount the steps and disappear down the colonnade into the palace.]

They’re gone,
And all is well again!—­Yet, now they’re gone,
How am I bettered?  Must I aught the less
Flee forth, today, and leave them in the hands
Of these my bitter foes?  Is Jason less
A traitor?  Will the bride make aught the less
Of feasting on her bridal day, forsooth? 
Tomorrow, when the sun shall rise,
Then shall I be alone,
The world a desert waste for me,
My babes, my husband—­gone! 
A wand’rer I, with weary feet
All torn and bleeding sore,
And bound for exile!—­Whither, then
I know no more! 
My foes stay here and make a joyous feast,
And laugh to think me gone;
My babes cling tightly to a stranger’s breast,
Estranged from me forever, far away
From where I needs must come! 
And wilt thou suffer that? 
Is it not even now too late,
Too late to grant forgiveness? 
Hath not Creusa even now the robes,
Ay, and the chalice, that fierce-flaming cup? 
Hark!  Nay, not yet!—­But soon enough
Will come the shriek of agony
Ringing through all the palace halls! 
Then they will come and slay me,
Nor spare the babes! 
Hark!  What a cry was that!  Ha!  Tongues of flame
Leap curling from the palace!  It is done! 
No more may I retreat, repent! 
Let come what must!  Set forward!

[GORA bursts out of the palace in a frenzy.]

GORA.  Oh, horror, horror!

MEDEA (hurrying to her).

So the deed is done!

GORA.  Woe, woe!  Creusa dead, the palace red
             With mounting flames!

MEDEA.  So, art thou gone at last,
             Thou snow-white, spotless bride?  Or seek’st thou still
             To charm my children from me?  Wouldst thou?  Wouldst thou? 
             Wouldst take them whither thou art gone? 
             Nay, to the gods I give them now,
             And not to thee, nay, not to thee!

GORA.  What hast thou done?—­Look, look, they come!

MEDEA.  They come?  Too late!  Too late!

[She vanishes down the colonnade.]