Yea— So be it. What levies wilt thou raise, to heave Thy father from his seat? MADAN. Let that be nought Of all thy care: do thou but trust—believe Thy son’s right hand no feebler than thy thought, If that be strong to smite—and thou shalt see Vengeance. GUENDOLEN. I will. But were thy musters brought Whence now thou art come to cheer me, this should be A sign for us of comfort. MADAN. Dost thou fear Signs? GUENDOLEN. Nay, child, nay—thou art harsh as heaven to me— I would but have of thee a word of cheer. MADAN. I am weak in words: my tongue can match not thine, Mother. Voices within] The king! GUENDOLEN. Hearst thou? Voices within.] The king! MADAN. I hear. Enter LOCRINE. LOCRINE. How fares my queen? GUENDOLEN. Well. And this child of mine— How he may fare concerns not thee to know? LOCRINE. Why, well I see my boy fares well. GUENDOLEN. Locrine, Thou art welcome as the sun to fields of snow. LOCRINE. But hardly would they hail the sun whose face Dissolves them deathward. Was thy meaning so? GUENDOLEN. Make answer for me, Madan. LOCRINE. In thy place? The boy’s is not beside thee. GUENDOLEN. Speak, I say. MADAN. God guard my lord and father with his grace! LOCRINE. Well prayed, my child. GUENDOLEN. Children—who can but pray— Pray better, if my sense not err, than we. The God whom all the gods of heaven obey Should hear them rather, seeing—as gods may see— How pure of purpose is their perfect prayer. LOCRINE. I think not else—the better then for me. But ours—what manner of child is this? the hair Buds flowerwise round his darkening lips and chin, This hand’s young hardening palm knows how to bear The sword-hilt’s poise that late I laid therein— Ha? doth not it? GUENDOLEN. Thine enemies know that well. MADAN. I make no boast of battles that have been; But, so God help me, days unborn shall tell What manner of heart my father gave me. LOCRINE. Good. I doubt thee not. GUENDOLEN. In Cornwall they that fell So found it, that of all their large-limbed brood No bulk is left to brave thee.