MEDEA.  Is it, then, done?

SLAVE.  A moment yet, my mistress.

[GORA comes out of the tent and stands at a distance.]

MEDEA.  Come!  First the veil, and then the goddess’ staff. 
             I shall not need them more; here let them rest. 
             Dark night, the time for magic, is gone by,
             And what is yet to come, or good or ill,
             Must happen in the beamy light of day.—­
             This casket next; dire, secret flames it hides
             That will consume the wretch who, knowing not,
             Shall dare unlock it.  And this other here,
             Full-filled with sudden death, with many an herb,
             And many a stone of magic power obscure,
             Unto that earth they sprang from I commit.

[She rises.]

So!  Rest ye here in peace for evermore. 
Now for the last and mightiest thing of all!

[Illustration:  MEDEA From the Painting by Anselm Feuerbach]

[The slave, who has meanwhile climbed out of the pit and taken his stand behind the princess awaiting the conclusion of her enterprise, now turns to help her, and grasps at an object covered with a veil and hanging from a lance that has been resting against a tree behind MEDEA; the veil falls, revealing the banner, with the Golden Fleece glowing radiantly through the darkness.]

SLAVE (grasping the Fleece).  ’Tis this?

MEDEA.  Nay, hold thy hand!  Unveil it not.

(Addressing the Fleece.)

Once more let me behold thee, fatal gift
Of trusting guest-friend!  Shine for one last time,
Thou witness of the downfall of my house,
Bespattered with my father’s, brother’s blood,
Sign of Medea’s shame and hateful crime!

[She stamps upon the lance-haft and breaks it in two.]

So do I rend thee now, so sink thee deep
In earth’s dark bosom, whence, a bane to men,
Thou sprang’st.

[She lays the broken standard in the chest with the other objects and shuts down the cover.]

GORA (comes down).

What does my mistress here?

MEDEA.  Thou seest.

GORA.  Wilt thou, then, bury in the earth that Fleece,
             The symbol of thy service to the gods,
             That saved thee, and shall save thee yet again?

MEDEA (scornfully).

That saved me?  ’Tis because it saved me not,
That here I lay it.  I am safe enough.

GORA (ironically).

Thanks to thy husband’s love?

MEDEA (to the slave, ignoring Gora’s taunt).

Is all prepared?

SLAVE.  Yea, mistress.

MEDEA.  Come!

[She grasps one handle of the chest, the slave the other, and together they carry it to the pit.]