Sol. O, kind! As death, or plague, or leprosy!
’Tis he has taken revenge on Artavan!
He ’ll kill the prince, too, when he comes!
Sem. My child—
Sol. (Pointing down)
I heard them talking there!
Sem. Thy husband ’s safe.
Bethink thee that the king’s decree protects him.
Sol. Not from the king! From man, not from the gods,
And Ninus is a god, or dreams he is!
Sem. From man—not from—no, no! I will not say
Or think it! My poor child—
Sol. You ’ll save the prince?
’Tis you he trusts, not Ninus!
Sem. Sweet, be calm.
You did not see the king.
Sol. Hear all, and save him!
When Khosrove takes the seat of highest honor,
Lord of the Revels by Assyria’s favor,
The floor will part, the chair fall to the lake,
Where Vassin waits to slay him, while the king
Strikes down in wrath the master of the feast
For fault of accident!
Sem. Where are your wits?
See, yonder comes the king!