Where's Medea? Bring her before my face! Medea! [_He enters suddenly with drawn sword._] Nay, They told me she was caught! Where is she, then? (_To_ GORA.) Ha! Thou here? Where's thy mistress? GORA. Fled away! JASON. Hath she the children? GORA. Nay! JASON. Then they are-- GORA. Dead! Yea, dead! thou smooth-tongued traitor, dead, I say! She sought to put them where thine eyes could never Take joy in them again; but, knowing well No spot on earth so sacred was but thou To find them wouldst break in, she hid them, safe Forever, in the grave! Ay, stand aghast, And stare upon the pavement! Thou canst never Recall thy babes to life! They're gone for aye! And, for their sake, I'm glad! No, I am not, For their sake--but because thou dost despair, That, smooth-tongued traitor, glads my heart indeed! Was it not thou that drove her to this crime, And thou, false King, with thine hypocrisy? She was a noble creature-but ye drew Your nets of shameful treachery too close About her, till, in wild despair, cut off From all escape else, she o'erleaped your snares, And made thy crown, the kingly ornament Of royal heads, to be the awful tool Of her unnatural crime! Ay, wring your hands, But wring them for your own most grievous fate! (_Turning to the_ KING.) Why sought thy child another woman's bed? (_Turning to_ JASON.) Why must thou steal her, bring her here to Greece, If thou didst never love her? If thou didst Right truly love her, why, then, thrust her forth? Though others cry her murderess, yea, though I Myself must name her so, yet none the less Ye have but met your just deserts!--For me, I have no wish to live another day! Two of my babes are dead, the third I needs Must hate forever! Take me, lead me hence And slay me, if ye will! Fair hopes I have At last, of justice in that other world, Now I have seen Heaven's vengeance on you hurled! [_She is led away by some of the _KING's _attendants._] (_Pause._) KING. Nay, if I wronged her,--by the gods in Heaven I swear I meant it not!--Now haste we all To search these smoking ruins for what trace Remains of my poor girl, that we may lay Her broken, bruised frame to rest at last In Earth's kind bosom! [_He turns to _JASON.]