Amal. He did; and, with my father's help,—for which
Heaven pardon him!—so gained their soldiers' hearts,
That, in a few days, he was saluted king:
And when his crimes had impudence enough
To bear the eye of day,
He marched his army back to Syracuse.
But see how heaven can punish wicked men,
In granting their desires: The news was brought him,
That day he was to enter it, that Eubulus,
Whom his dead master had left governor,
Was fled, and with him bore away the queen,
And royal orphan; but, what more amazed him,
His wife, now big with child, and much detesting
Her husband's practices, had willingly
Accompanied their flight.
Arte. How I admire her virtue!
Amal. What became
Of her, and them, since that, was never known;
Only, some few days since, a famous robber
Was taken with some jewels of vast price,
Which, when they were delivered to the king,
He knew had been his wife's; with these, a letter,
Much torn and sullied, but which yet he knew
To be her writing.
Arte. Sure, from hence he learned
He had a son?
Amal. It was not left so plain:
The paper only said, she died in child-bed;
But when it should have mentioned son or daughter,
Just there it was torn off.
Arte. Madam, the king.
To them Polydamus, Argaleon, Guard and Attendants.
Arga. The robber, though thrice racked, confessed no more.
But that he took those jewels near this place.
Poly. But yet the circumstances strongly argue,
That those, for whom I search, are not far off.
Arga. I cannot easily believe it.