Paul. 
     How threatening, how dark his mien!  How lightning-fraught his eye! 
     Where wrath and grief, revenge and pain, do strive for mastery!

     (Enter Felix.)

     Felix. 
     O insolence undreamed!—­Before my very eyes!—­
     Before the people’s gaze!  It is too much!—­he dies!

     Paul. 
     O father!—­on my knees! 
     (Kneels.)
     Unsay that word!

     Felix. 
     Nearchus’ doom I speak,—­not his, thy lord. 
     Though all unworthy he to be my son,
     Yet still he bears the name that he hath won;
     Nor crime of his nor wrath of mine shall ever move
     Thy father’s heart to hate the man thou crown’st with love!

     Paul. 
     Ne’er vainly have I sued for pity from my sire!

     Felix. 
     And yet meet food were he for righteous ire! 
     To recount an act so fell my feeble words too weak,
     But thou has heard the tale my lips refuse to speak
     From her, thy maiden; she hath told thee all.

     Paul. 
     Nearchus goaded—­planned—­and he shall fall!

     Felix. 
     So taught by torture of his vilest friend,
     Shall Polyeucte mark of guilt the certain end,
     When of the frenzied race he sees the goal,
     The dread of torture shall subdue his soul! 
     Who mocked the thought of death, when death he views,
     Will choose an easier mate—­and rightly choose. 
     That shadowy guest, that doth his soul entice,
     Once master, glues all ardour into ice,
     And that proud heart, which never meekness knew,
     When face to face with Death—­will learn to sue!

     Paul. 
     What!  Thinkest thou his soul can ever blench?

     Felix. 
     Death’s mighty flood must every furnace quench!

     Paul. 
     It might!  It may!—­I know such things can be! 
     A Polyeucte changed—­debased—­forsworn I see! 
     O, changeful Fortune! changeless Polyeucte move,
     And grant a boon denied by father’s love!

     Felix. 
     My love too plain—­myself too weakly kind,
     Let him repent and he shall pardon find;
     Nearchus’ sin is his,—­and yet the grace
     He shall not win, thy Polyeucte may embrace! 
     My duty—­to a father’s love betrayed
     Hath of thy sire a fond accomplice made;
     A healing balm I bring for all thy fears,
     I look for thanks, and lo—­thou giv’st me tears!

     Paul. 
     I give no thanks—­no cause for thanks I find;
     I know the Christian temper—­know their mind,
     They can blaspheme, but ah, they cannot lie! 
     They know not how to yield—­but they can die!

     Felix. 
     As bird in hand, he holds his pardon still.

     Paul. 
     The bird escapes, when ’tis the owner’s will.