RUSTIC.  Who knocks?—­Poor man,
             Who art thou?  Ah, poor soul, he’s faint to death!

JASON.  Oh, water, water!  Give me but to drink! 
             See, Jason is my name, famed far and wide,
             The hero of the wondrous Golden Fleece! 
             A prince—­a king—­and of the Argonauts
             The mighty leader, Jason!

RUSTIC.  Art thou, then,
             In very sooth Lord Jason?  Get thee gone
             And quickly!  Thou shalt not so much as set
             A foot upon my threshold, to pollute
             My humble dwelling!  Thou didst bring but now
             Death to the daughter of my lord the King! 
             Then seek not shelter at the meanest door
             Of any of his subjects!

[He goes into the hut again and shuts the door behind him.]

JASON.  He is gone,
             And leaves me here to lie upon the earth,
             Bowed in the dust, for any that may pass
             To trample on!—­O Death, on thee I call! 
             Have pity on me!  Take me to my babes!

[He sinks down upon the ground.]

MEDEA makes her way among some tumbled rocks, and stands suddenly before him, the Golden Fleece flung over her shoulders like a mantle.

MEDEA.  Jason!

JASON (half raising himself).

Who calls me?—­Ha!  What spectral form
Is this before me?  Is it thou, Medea? 
Ha!  Dost thou dare to show thyself again
Before mine eyes?  My sword!  My sword!

[He tries to rise, but falls weakly back.]

Woe’s me! 
My limbs refuse their service!  Here I lie,
A broken wreck!

MEDEA.  Nay, cease thy mad attempts
             Thou canst not harm me, for I am reserved
             To be the victim of another’s hand,
             And not of thine!

JASON.  My babes!—­Where has thou them?

MEDEA.  Nay, they are mine!

JASON.  Where hast thou them, I say?

MEDEA.  They’re gone where they are happier far than thou
             Or I shall ever be!

JASON.  Dead!  Dead!  My babes!

MEDEA.  Thou deemest death the worst of mortal woes? 
             I know a far more wretched one—­to be
             Alone, unloved!  Hadst thou not prized mere life
             Far, far above its worth, we were not now
             In such a pass.  But we must bear our weight
             Of sorrow, for thy deeds!  Yet these our babes
             Are spared that grief, at least!

JASON.  And thou canst stand
             So patient, quiet, there, and speak such words?