GUENDOLEN.
Save her! God pardon me!
MADAN.
The water whirls
Down out of sight her tender face, and hurls
Her soft light limbs to deathward. God forgive—
Thee, sayest thou, mother? Wouldst thou bid her live?
GUENDOLEN.
What have we done?
MADAN.
The work we came to do.
That God, thou said’st, should stand for judge of you
Whose judgment smote with mortal fire and sword
Troy, for such cause as bade thee slay thy lord.
Now, as between his fathers and their foes
The lord of gods dealt judgment, winged with woes
And girt about with ruin, hath he sent
On these destruction.
GUENDOLEN.
Yea.