GORA.  Those heroes all, who made with him
             The wanton Argo-voyage hence,
             The gods above have recompensed
             With just requital, swift revenge. 
             Death and disgrace have seized them all
             Save one—­how long shall he go free? 
             Each day I listen greedily,
             And joy to hear how they have died,
             How fell these glorious sons of Greece,
             The robber-band that fought their way
             Back from far Colchis.  Thracian maids
             Rent limb from limb sweet Orpheus’ frame;
             And Hylas found a watery grave;
             Pirithoues and Theseus pierced
             Even to Hades’ darksome realm
             To rob that mighty lord of shades
             Of his radiant spouse, Persephone;
             But then he seized, and holds them there
             For aye in chains and endless night.

MEDEA (swiftly snatching her veil from before her face).

Because they came to steal his wife? 
Good!  Good!  ’Twas Jason’s crime, nay, less!

GORA.  Great Heracles forsook his wife,
             For he was snared by other charms,
             And in revenge she sent to him
             A linen tunic, which he took
             And clad himself therewith—­and sank
             To earth in hideous agonies;
             For she had smeared it secretly
             With poison and swift death.  He sank
             To earth, and Oeta’s wooded heights
             Were witness how he died in flames!

MEDEA.  She wove it, then, that tunic dire
             That slew him?

GORA.  Ay, herself.

MEDEA.  Herself!

GORA.  Althea ’twas—­his mother—­smote
             The mighty Meleager down
             Who slew the Calydonian boar;
             The mother slew her child.

MEDEA.  Was she
             Forsaken by her husband, too?

GORA.  Nay, he had slain her brother.

MEDEA.  Who? 
             The husband

GORA.  Nay, her son, I mean.

MEDEA.  And when the deed was done, she died?

GORA.  She liveth yet.

MEDEA.  To do a deed
             Like that—­and live!  Oh, horrible! 
             Thus much do I know, thus much I see clear
             Not unavenged shall I suffer wrong;
             What that vengeance shall be, I know not,—­would not know. 
             Whatso’er I can do, he deserves,—­ay, the worst! 
             But—­mankind are so weak,
             So fain to grant time for the sinner to feel remorse!

GORA.  Remorse?  Ask thy lord if he rue his deed! 
             For, see!  He draws nigh with hasty steps.