JASON. Hail to thee, too! (_To the slave._) Go, thou, and all the others, And pluck green branches from the budding trees To mark you suppliants. 'Tis the custom here. And keep a quiet, peaceful mien. Dost hear? Now go. [_They depart._] MEDEA. Thou'rt full of thought? JASON. Ay, full. MEDEA. Thou givest Thyself no rest. JASON. A fugitive--and rest? There is no rest for such, but only flight. MEDEA. Last night thou didst not close thine eyes in sleep, But wand'redst forth in the murky night, alone. JASON. I love the night; the sunlight hurts my eyes. MEDEA. And thou hast sent a message to the king. Will he receive us kindly? JASON. That I wait To hear. MEDEA. He is thy friend? JASON. He was. MEDEA. Then sure His heart will soften. JASON. Even the kindest men Shun friendship with the accurst. And thou dost know How all the world doth flee us, since the death Of my false uncle, Pelias, whom some god In devilish sport caused to be strangled. Thus The people whisper that I slew him, I, Thy husband, from that land of magic come. Dost thou not know this? MEDEA. Yea. JASON. Here's cause enough To wake and wander all the dark night through.-- But what hath brought thee forth, before the sun Is up? What seek'st thou in this darkling hour? Calling old friends from Colchis? MEDEA. Nay. JASON. Speak truth! MEDEA. I say, I am not. JASON. And I say to thee, Better for thee if thou forget all such. Pluck no more herbs, brew no more poison-drinks, Nor commune with the moon, let dead men's bones Rot in their graves at peace! Such magic arts This folk here love not,--and I hate them, too! This is not Colchis dark,--but sunny Greece; Not hideous monsters, but our fellow-men Dwell round about us. Come, henceforth, I know, Thou wilt give o'er these rites and magic spells; I have thy promise, and I know thee true.-- That crimson wimple bound about thy hair Calls long-forgotten scenes to memory. Why wilt not wear our country's wonted dress? I was a Colchian on thy Colchian soil; Be thou a Greek, now I have brought thee home. The past is dead. Why call it back to life? Alas! It haunts us yet, do what we will! [MEDEA _silently removes the veil and gives it to_ GORA.] GORA (_whispering_). Scorn'st thou thy homeland thus--and all for him? JASON (_catching sight of _GORA).