KING. Send it to where Creusa waits. MEDEA. To her? This Fleece to thy fair daughter? Ay, I will! KING. Holdeth this casket aught besides the Fleece? MEDEA. Yea, many things! KING. Thine own? MEDEA. Mine own. From these A gift I'd send her. KING. Nay, I would demand Naught else of thee. Keep that which is thine own. MEDEA. Surely thou wilt permit me one small gift! Thy daughter was so mild to me, so good, And she will be a mother to my babes. I fain would win her love! Thou dost desire Naught but the Fleece; perchance some trinkets rare Would please her eyes. KING. Do even as thou wilt; Only, bethink thee of thy needs. Thou knowest Already how she loves thee. But an hour Agone she begged to send thy babes to thee That thou might'st see them once again, and take A last farewell before thou settest forth Upon thy weary way. I said her nay, For I had seen thy fury. Now thou art Quiet again, and so shalt have that grace. MEDEA. Oh, thanks to thee, thou good and pious King! KING. Wait here. I'll send the children to thee straight. [_He departs._] MEDEA. He's gone--and to his doom! Fool! Didst thou not Tremble and shudder when thou took'st away Her last possession from the woman thou Hadst robbed already? Yet, I thank thee for it, Ay, thank thee! Thou hast given me back myself! --Unlock the casket! GORA (_fumbling at it_). That I cannot do. MEDEA. Nay, I forgot how I did lock it up! The key is kept by friends I know full well. [_She turns toward the chest._] Up from below! Down from o'erhead! Open, thou secretest Tomb of the dead! The lid springs open, and I am no more A weak and powerless woman! There they lie, My staff, my veil of crimson! Mine! Ah, mine! [_She takes them out of the casket._] I take thee in my hands, thou mighty staff Of mine own mother, and through heart and limbs Unfailing strength streams forth from thee to me! And thee, beloved wimple, on my brow I bind once more! [_She veils herself._] How warm, how soft thou art, How dost thou pour new life through all my frame! Now come, come all my foes in close-set ranks, Banded against me, banded for your doom! GORA. Look! Yonder flares a light! MEDEA. Nay, let it flare! 'Twill soon be quenched in blood!-- Here are the presents I would send to her; And thou shalt be the bearer of my gifts! GORA. I?