Paul. 
     What of them?

     STRAT. 
     Ah, how to speak—­

     Paul. 
     They on my father would their vengeance wreak?

     STRAT. 
     Oh, fear whate’er thou wilt—­that fear too small!

     Paul. 
     The Christians rise?

     STRAT. 
     Oh, would that this were all! 
     Thy dream, Pauline, is true; Polyeucte is——­

     Paul. 
     Dead?

     STRAT. 
     Ah, no, he lives—­yet every hope is fled;
     That courage once so high, that noble name
     Sunk in the mire of everlasting shame! 
     He lives,—­who once was lovely in thy sight—­
     As monster foul—­his every breath a blight;
     The foe of Heaven, of Jove, of all our race,
     His kisses poison, and his love—­disgrace! 
     Wretch, coward, miscreant, steeped in infamy,
     O worse than every name!—­a Christian he!

     Paul. 
     Nay, that one word’s enough!  There needed not abuse.

     STRAT. 
     My words fit well their guilt;—­with evil make no truce.

     Paul. 
     If he be Nazarene—­he must an outcast be! 
     But insult to my lord is insult unto me!

     STRAT. 
     Think only that he hails the Cross, the badge of shame.

     Paul. 
     My plighted faith, my troth, my duty still the same!

     STRAT. 
     When twined about thy breast, the hideous serpent slay! 
     Who mocks the Gods on high will his own wife betray!

     Paul. 
     If he be false, yet I will still be true,
     The ties that bind me I will ne’er undo: 
     Let fate—­Severus—­passion—­all combine
     Against him!—­I am his, and he is mine. 
     Yes, mine to guide, lead, win, forgive, and save! 
     I seek his honour tho’ he court the grave. 
     Let Polyeucte be Christ’s slave!—­For woe, for weal,
     He is my lord; the bond I owe I seal;
     I fear my father,—­all his vengeance, dread.

     STRAT. 
     Fierce burns his rage o’er that devoted head;
     Yet embers of old love still faintly glow,
     And through his wrath some weak compassion show;
     ’Gainst Polyeucte biting words alone he speaks
     But on Nearchus fullest vengeance wreaks!

     Paul. 
     Nearchus lured him on?

     STRAT. 
     The tempter he;
     Such friendship leads to death, or infamy. 
     Oh, cursed friend, who, in dear love’s despite,
     Has torn him from thine arms—­his neophyte! 
     He dragged him to the front;—­baptized, annealed—­
     He fights for Christ!—­The secret is revealed.

     Paul. 
     Which I would know—­and straightway had thy blame!

     STRAT. 
     Ah!  I foresaw not this—­their deed of shame!