Moh'd. How, bold stripling! Weigh with more care thy speech, and forget not before whom thou dost stand. [_To_ Selim.] Go, slave, and stand without; see that none enter here unbidden. [_Exit_ Selim.] Speak, boy! Who art thou, and why dost thou seek thus fearlessly the presence of thy foe?--and beware thou speakest truly if it is as a friend to treat in honorable fashion, or as a spy, thou now standest before us. Ion. I am a Greek, son to the noble Cleon, now thy captive; I seek his rescue. Moh'd. Son to Cleon! Now, by the Prophet, 'tis wondrous strange! And thou hast ventured alone into the camp amid thy deadly foes? Speak, boy,--thine errand! Ion. To offer hostage; to treat with Mohammed for a father's life; to move to pity or to justice the heart that hath doomed a noble soldier unto an unjust death. Moh'd. And where, my bold prince, are thy followers, thy slaves, thy royal train? Ion. On yonder plain, cold in their graves. Moh'd. Hast thou brought ransom? Where is thy gold? Ion. In the coffers of the Turkish Mohammed, plundered from his slaughtered foes. Moh'd. Thou spakest of hostage,--I see it not. Ion. 'Tis here,--the son of Cleon. Moh'd. Thou! and thinkest thou thy young, worthless life were a fit hostage for the leader of a rebel band, the enemy of all true followers, whose capture hath cost blood and slaves and gold? By Allah! boy, thou must name a higher price to win the life thou doth seek. Ion. I have nought else to offer. Thy hand hath rent from me friends, followers, gold, a sire. But if this young life hath any worth to thee, if these arms may toil for thee, this form bear burdens to thy royalty, take them,--take all, O king, but render unto me that life without which Greece is lost. Moh'd. Peace! Thy speech is vain; thy life is nought to me. Ion. I will serve thee as a slave; in all things do thy bidding,--faithful, unwearied, unrepining. Grant but my boon, and monarch shall never have a truer vassal than I will be to thee. Great Mohammed, let me not plead in vain. Moh'd. Peace, I say; anger me not. Ion. O king, hast thou no heart? Think of the ruined home, the mourning people, the land made desolate by thee; of her who now counts the weary hours for tidings of those dear to her,--tidings fraught with life or death as thou shalt decree; of the son by thee doomed to see his honored sire, hero of a hundred battles dragged like a slave unto a shameful death. As thou wilt have mercy shown to thee, that mercy show thou unto me. Oh, say to me, "Thy father lives!" Moh'd. Away! I will not listen. Ion. Nay, I _will_ kneel to thee. I who never knelt to man before, now implore thee with earnest supplication. 'Tis for a father's life. Moh'd. Kneel not to me,--it is in vain. Thy father is my captive, my deadliest foe, whom I hate, and curse,--ay, and will slay. Boy, dost thou know to whom thou dost bow?