GUENDOLEN.
I praise the gods that gave me thee: thine heart
Is none of his, no changeling’s in desire,
No coward’s as who begat thee: mine thou art
All, and mine only. Lend me now thine ear:
Thou knowest—
MADAN.
What anguish holds thy lips apart
And strikes thee silent? Am I bound to hear
What thou to speak art bound not?
GUENDOLEN.
How my lord,
Our lord, thy sire—the king whose throne is here
Imperial—smote and drove the wolf-like horde
That raged against us from the raging east,
And how their chief sank in the unsounded ford
He thought to traverse, till the floods increased
Against him, and he perished: and Locrine
Found in his camp for sovereign spoil to feast
The sense of power with lustier joy than wine
A woman—Dost thou mock me?
MADAN.
And a fair
Woman, if all men lie not, mother mine—
I have heard so much. And then?
GUENDOLEN.
Thou dost not dare
Mock me?