MADAN.
Nay, I lust not after empire so
That for mine own hand I should haply care
To take this deed upon it: but the blow,
Thou sayest, that speeds my father forth of life,
Speeds too my mother forth of living woe
That till he dies may die not. If his wife
Set in his son’s right hand the sword to slay—
No poison brewed of hell, no treasonous knife—
The sword that walks and shines and smites by day,
Not on his hand who takes the sword shall cleave
The blood that clings on hers who gives it.
GUENDOLEN.
Yea—
So be it. What levies wilt thou raise, to heave
Thy father from his seat?
MADAN.
Let that be nought
Of all thy care: do thou but trust—believe
Thy son’s right hand no feebler than thy thought,
If that be strong to smite—and thou shalt see
Vengeance.
GUENDOLEN.
I will. But were thy musters brought
Whence now thou art come to cheer me, this should be
A sign for us of comfort.
MADAN.
Dost thou fear
Signs?