But since Fate has other will There rises need the dam-walls to unbarrier Which long have shut us, like a stagnant mere Locked from the sea, away from other peoples, And there’s no other method but that we In use and custom mould us to their fashion. SAMEAS. In use and--(_to Heaven_) Lord, if I break not in raving Send me Thy sign how such a churl shall die, Sign of some death which every other death Sucks of its horrors, and proclaim to me That it is Herod for whose sake ’tis done. ALEX. Be you then the Death-Angel? SAMEAS. Or for him Or for myself! I swear’t! Can I not hinder This ghastly plan, my impotence I’ll punish With murder of myself (_with a gesture towards his breast_) ere that day comes, The day that he shall first befleck with mire. _There_ is a binding oath that a misdeed Will wring from me if for a hero-deed I prove unfit. Who ever swore a greater? ALEX. Good! But forget not this; if your own arm Be over-weak to dash your foemen downwards, A stranger’s arm must not then be contemned. SAMEAS. And such a stranger? ALEX. You may arm with ease. SAMEAS. Speak plainer language! ALEX. Who created Herod A King? SAMEAS. Why, Antony; who otherwise? ALEX. And wherefore did it? SAMEAS. While it pleased him so; Perhaps, too, just because it pleased not us. When had a heathen ever better grounds? ALEX. And, further, what maintains him on the throne? SAMEAS. Not the folk’s blessing! Maybe ’tis its curse. Who can say that? ALEX. I! Nothing but his trick Of sending every year ere reckoning-day The tax that we are forced to pay the Romans, Ay, and the same of his own will to double If some new war has broken into blaze. The Roman wants our gold and nothing more, He leaves to us our Faith, he leaves our God, Would even help to do Him reverence, And, niched with Jupiter and Ops and Isis, Grant Him a corner in the Capitol That has been let lie vacant till to-day If only He, as they, were made of stone. SAMEAS. If it be so, alas! and it is so, What have you then to hope of Antony? In this regard, yourself has said it, Herod Yields each punctilious tittle. Why, I’ve seen The tribute-panniers carried. One mule broke His backbone ere it reached the city-gate. For every drop of blood within his veins He renders up to him an ounce of gold.[8] Think you on your account he’ll send it back? ALEX.