That traitor that doth call himself Lord Jason! 
             I would I were in Colchis with Medea
             And these poor babes in safety!  Would I ne’er
             Had seen your faces, or your city here,
             Whereon this grievous fate so justly falls!

KING.  These insults thou wilt soon enough put by,
             When thou shalt feel my heavy hand of doom! 
             But is it certain that my child is dead? 
             So many cry her dead, though I can find
             None that did see her fall!  Is there no way
             To ’scape the fire?  And can the flames wax strong
             So quickly?  See how slow they lick and curl
             Along the fallen rafters of my house! 
             Do ye not see?  And yet ye say she’s dead? 
             An hour ago she stood before mine eyes
             A blooming flower, instinct with happy life—­
             And now she’s dead!  Nay, I cannot believe,
             And will not!  ’Gainst my will I turn mine eyes
             Now here, now there, and cannot but believe
             That now, or now, or now at least, she must
             Appear in all her stainless purity
             And beauty, glide in safety to me here
             Through those black, smoldering ruins!—­Who was by? 
             Who saw her perish?—­Thou?—­Quick, speak!—­Nay, then,
             Roll not thine eyes in horror!  Tell thy tale,
             E’en though it kill me!  Is she dead, indeed?

A SLAVE-WOMAN.

Dead!

KING.  And thou saw’st it?

SLAVE-WOMAN.

With my very eyes! 
Saw how the flames leaped forth from out that box
Of gold, and caught her flesh—­

KING.  Hold!  Hold!  Enough! 
             This woman saw it!  Creusa is no more! 
             Creusa!  Oh, my daughter, my dear child! 
             Once, many years agone, she burnt her hand
             Against the altar; she was but a child,
             And cried aloud with pain.  I rushed to her
             And caught her in my arms, and to my lips. 
             I put her poor scorched fingers, blowing hard
             To ease the burning pain.  The little maid
             E’en through her bitter tears smiled up at me
             And, softly sobbing, whispered in my ear,
             “It is not much!  I do not mind the pain!”
             Gods!  That she should be burned to death?  Oh, gods!

[He turns fiercely upon GORA.]

And as for thee,—­if I should plunge my sword
Ten, twenty times, up to the hilt, clean through
Thy body, would that bring my daughter back? 
Or, could I find that hideous witch-wife—­Stay! 
Where went she, that hath robbed me of my child? 
I’ll shake an answer straight from out thy mouth,
Ay, though thy soul come with it, if thou’lt not
Declare to me this instant where she’s gone!