Ion. I am a Greek, son to the noble Cleon, now thy captive; I seek his rescue.
Moh'd. Son to Cleon! Now, by the Prophet, 'tis wondrous strange! And thou hast ventured alone into the camp amid thy deadly foes? Speak, boy,—thine errand!
Ion. To offer hostage; to treat with Mohammed for a father's life; to move to pity or to justice the heart that hath doomed a noble soldier unto an unjust death.
Moh'd. And where, my bold prince, are thy followers, thy slaves, thy royal train?
Ion. On yonder plain, cold in their graves.
Moh'd. Hast thou brought ransom? Where is thy gold?
Ion. In the coffers of the Turkish Mohammed, plundered from his slaughtered foes.
Moh'd. Thou spakest of hostage,—I see it not.
Ion. 'Tis here,—the son of Cleon.
Moh'd. Thou! and thinkest thou thy young, worthless life were a fit hostage for the leader of a rebel band, the enemy of all true followers, whose capture hath cost blood and slaves and gold? By Allah! boy, thou must name a higher price to win the life thou doth seek.