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?

MEDEA.  Thou!  Go quickly to the chamber where
             Creusa sits, speak soft and honied words,
             Bring her Medea’s greetings, and her gifts!