KING.  Nay, if I wronged her,—­by the gods in Heaven
             I swear I meant it not!—­Now haste we all
             To search these smoking ruins for what trace
             Remains of my poor girl, that we may lay
             Her broken, bruised frame to rest at last
             In Earth’s kind bosom!

[He turns to JASON.]

But, for thee—­straightway
Thou must go forth, where’er thy feet may choose
To carry thee!  Pollution such as thine
Spells woe for all about thee, as I’ve proved. 
Oh, had I never seen, never rescued thee,
Ne’er acted friendship’s part and welcomed thee
Within my palace!  And, for thanks, thou took’st
My daughter from me!  Go, lest thou shouldst take
As well the only comfort left me now—­
To weep her memory!

JASON.  Wouldst thou thrust me forth?

KING.  I banish thee my sight.

JASON.  What shall I do?

KING.  Some god will answer that!

JASON.  Who, then, will guide
             My wandering steps, who lend a helping hand? 
             For, see! my head is bleeding, wounded sore
             By falling firebrands!  How?  All silent, then? 
             And none will guide me, none companion me,
             None follow me, whom once so many joyed
             To follow?  Spirits of my babes, lead ye
             The way, and guide your father to the grave
             That waits him!

[He goes slowly away.]

KING (to his attendants).

Quick, to work!  And after that,
Mourning that hath no end!

[He goes away in the other direction.]

The curtain falls for a moment, and, when it rises again, discloses a wild and lonely region surrounded by forest and by lofty crags, at the foot of which lies a mean hut.  A rustic enters.

RUSTIC.  How fair the morning dawns!  Oh, kindly gods,
             After the storm and fury of the night,
             Your sun doth rise more glorious than before!

[He goes into the hut.]

(JASON comes stumbling out of the forest and leaning heavily on his sword.)

JASON.  Nay, I can go no farther!  How my head
             Doth burn and throb, the blood how boil within! 
             My tongue cleaves to the roof of my parched mouth! 
             Is none within there?  Must I die of thirst,
             And all alone?—­Ha!  Yon’s the very hut
             That gave me shelter when I came this way
             Before, a rich man still, a happy father,
             My bosom filled with newly-wakened hopes!

[He knocks at the door.]

’Tis but a drink I crave, and then a place
To lay me down and die!

[The peasant comes out of the house.]