A goodly spoil Was that thine hand made then by Humber’s banks Of all who swelled the Scythian’s riotous ranks With storm of inland surf and surge of steel: None there were left, if tongues ring true, to feel The yoke of days that breathe submissive breath More bitter than the bitterest edge of death. LOCRINE. None. GUENDOLEN. This was then a day of blood. I heard, But know not whence I caught the wandering word, Strange women were there of that outland crew, Whom ruthlessly thy soldiers ravening slew. LOCRINE. Nay, Scythians then had we been, worse than they. GUENDOLEN. These that were taken, then, thou didst not slay? LOCRINE. I did not say we spared them. GUENDOLEN. Slay nor spare? LOCRINE. How if they were not? GUENDOLEN. What albeit they were? Small hurt, meseems, my husband, had it been Though British hands had haled a Scythian queen— If such were found—some woman foul and fierce— To death—or aught we hold for shame’s sake worse. LOCRINE. For shame’s own sake the hand that should not fear To take such monstrous work upon it here, And did not wither from the wrist, should be Hewn off ere hanging. Wolves or men are we, That thou shouldst question this? GUENDOLEN. Not wolves, but men, Surely: for beasts are loyal. LOCRINE. Guendolen, What irks thee? GUENDOLEN. Nought save grief and love; Locrine, A grievous love, a loving grief is mine. Here stands my husband: there my father lies: I know not if there live in either’s eyes More love, more life of comfort. This our son Loves me: but is there else left living one That loves me back as I love? LOCRINE. Nay, but how Has this wild question fired thine heart? GUENDOLEN.