STRAT. 
     What dost thou dread?

     Paul. 
     Heaven—­hell—­earth—­empty air! 
     All, all is food for dread to my despair,
     As thou unveil’st, begirt in lurid light,
     The pallid ghost that slew me in the night!

     STRAT. 
     Severus he by name, yet noble in his heart!

     Paul. 
     Ah, Polyeucte bathed in blood!  Depart! depart!

     STRAT. 
     For Polyeucte’s welfare did Severus pray!

     Paul. 
     Yes, yes, his heart is great; be that my stay! 
     Yet, tho’ his truth, his faith, well-proved be,
     Most baleful is his presence here to me;
     Yea, tho’ he would all ill for me undo
     Yet he hath power, he loves—­he came to woo.

     (Enter Polyeucte and Nearchus.)

     Poly. 
     The source of tears is dry, oh, weep no more,
     Thy grief lay down, thy fearful heart restore! 
     Let night’s dark dream with superstition die,
     The dream is past, for here in life am I!

     Paul. 
     The day is young, and oh, the day is long,—­
     And half the dream is true, and Fate is strong;
     Severus have I seen, who thought him dead!

     Poly. 
     I know it!  Let no tear for this be shed! 
     Secure with thee am I!  Tho’ great the knight,
     Thy father will command to do me right;
     The general is a man of honour,—­he
     Would ne’er that honour dim by treachery! 
     He comes in amity, our friend, our guest;
     To greet his worth and valour now my quest.

     Paul. 
     Radiant he came, who left me hopeless, sad,
     But he will come no more,—­this grace I had.

     Poly. 
     What?  Thinkest thou that I can jealous be?

     Paul. 
     An outrage this on him, on thee, on me! 
     He came in peace, who all my peace hath marred. 
     Who would run safely, every step must guard;
     The wife who danger courts but courts her fall
     My husband, aid me!—­I would tell thee all! 
     His worth, his charm, do my weak hearth enflame
     A traitor here!  And he is aye the same! 
     If I should gaze, and long—­’gainst virtue, honour, sense,
     The citadel I yield, and mine my own defence! 
     I know my virtues sure, and fair my fame,
     But struggle is defeat,—­and combat shame!

     Poly. 
     Oh, true thy shield, thy victory is won,
     He only who has lost thee is undone;
     His noble grief the cost of all my bliss,
     Ah, Cleopatra’s pearl was naught to this! 
     The more my faults I see, the more thy truth I learn,
     The more do I admire——­

     (Enter Cleon.)

     Cleon. 
     My lord, the altars burn
     With holy fire.  The victim they prepare;
     On thee alone they wait, our rites to share.