_Ara._ My lord, if 't be my prayers can save my soul, In some far fane I'll serve the priestess' cup Till Death is kind and calls me. _Dion._ [_Seizing her arm_] Answer me! Art mine, or his? _Ara._ Till truth no more is truth Thou art my lord. [_Aristocles turns and moves apart, covering his face with his mantle. Aratea sinks feebly and Theano supports her_] _Dion._ [_To Aristocles_] Now you've your answer! Niece, Lead out my wife. [_Theano takes Aratea from the room, through curtained entrance, left_] Aristocles--my friend-- I pity and forgive thee. When Love drives, His chariot reins are veins of mortal men, Who fain must course the bright god's destiny Nor reck the road. 'Tis strange--not that you loved her-- But that I did not dream it must be so, She being the top and bloom of all her sex, As you, my lord, of yours. A mortal judge Would grant you her, but God gave her to me, And I doubt not He blundered to a purpose Beyond our dream. Ah me, the night's red eyes Looked fatal on the sail that bore you hither. Cursed be my prayers that drew you from your Athens! Farewell! For you must go. Small Sicily No more may hold us both. [_Re-enter Theano_] _The._ She's better, sir. _Dion._ That's well. [_Enter Calippus, through hall, rear_] Your news? _Cal._ Our saviour of the night Now waits to see you. _Dion._ The warrior? Ask him in! [_Exit Calippus_] _The._ I'll speak the thanks he waited not to hear, Although my heart gives none for this poor life. [_Enter warrior, rear, still in arms and helmeted_] _Dion._ Thou'rt welcome as the gods. As lightning makes The world now bright, now dark, you fill and void The circle of our sense, but, here or there, 'Tis ours to grant you what you will if power Be in us. _Warrior._ [_Kneeling_] For one thing I sue--forgiveness. [_Removes helmet_] _Dion._ Ocrastes! _Oc._ Ay. _Dion._ How couldst be hid from me Though veiled in seven-fold steel? _The._ Not dead--not dead---- _Oc._ [_Embracing Theano_] My heart, look up. The long tale of my sins Will be as virtue's song when in love's ear 'Tis whispered. Nay, weep not. Those woes are sealed. _The._ O, canst forgive me? _Oc._ It is I must sue. Nay, nay, my sweet, no liquid gem drop now On misery's broken altar, too long rich With these eyes' jewels. _The._ Ah, thou'rt mine ... still mine.