HIPPOLYTUS Each mind hath its own bent, for God or man. HUNTSMAN God grant thee happiness ... and wiser thought! HIPPOLYTUS These Spirits that reign in darkness like me not. HUNTSMAN What the Gods ask, O Son, that man must pay! HIPPOLYTUS (_turning from him to the others_). On, huntsmen, to the Castle! Make your way Straight to the feast room; 'tis a merry thing After the chase, a board of banqueting. And see the steeds be groomed, and in array The chariot dight. I drive them forth to-day [_He pauses, and makes a slight gesture of reverence to the Statue on the left. Then to the_ OLD HUNTSMAN.] That for thy Cyprian, friend, and nought beside! [HIPPOLYTUS _follows the huntsmen, who stream by the central door in the Castle. The_ OLD HUNTSMAN _remains_.] HUNTSMAN (_approaching the Statue and kneeling_) O Cyprian--for a young man in his pride I will not follow!--here before thee, meek, In that one language that a slave may speak, I pray thee; Oh, if some wild heart in froth Of youth surges against thee, be not wroth For ever! Nay, be far and hear not then: Gods should be gentler and more wise than men! [_He rises and follows the others into the Castle_.] _The Orchestra is empty for a moment, then there enter from right and left several Trosenian women young and old. Their number eventually amounts to fifteen._ CHORUS There riseth a rock-born river, Of Ocean's tribe, men say; The crags of it gleam and quiver, And pitchers dip in the spray: A woman was there with raiment white To bathe and spread in the warm sunlight, And she told a tale to me there by the river The tale of the Queen and her evil day: How, ailing beyond allayment, Within she hath bowed her head, And with shadow of silken raiment The bright brown hair bespread. For three long days she hath lain forlorn, Her lips untainted of flesh or corn, For that secret sorrow beyond allayment That steers to the far sad shore of the dead. _Some Women_ Is this some Spirit, O child of man? Doth Hecat hold thee perchance, or Pan? Doth she of the Mountains work her ban, Or the dread Corybantes bind thee? _Others_ Nay, is it sin that upon thee lies, Sin of forgotten sacrifice, In thine own Dictynna's sea-wild eyes? Who in Limna here can find thee; For the Deep's dry floor is her easy way, And she moves in the salt wet whirl of the spray. _Other Women_ Or doth the Lord of Erechtheus' race, Thy Theseus, watch for a fairer face, For secret arms in a silent place, Far from thy love or chiding? _Others_ Or hath there landed, amid the loud Hum of Piraeus' sailor-crowd, Some Cretan venturer, weary-browed, Who bears to the Queen some tiding; Some far home-grief, that hath bowed her low, And chained her soul to a bed of woe?