Bia. Did you speak, my lord?
Your pardon! I was buried here,—quite drowned
I' the honey of this tale. Sir, it suggests,—
But that's not it,—the style, so quaint, so pure,—
It plays with thoughts and leaves them bright as shells
The sea has polished to their curling edges.
You'll hear this line? 'Tis worth a pause. Eh, not?
You've never wooed the script? Ah, I forget.
War is the art of Sparta.
Ste. Are you man?
Bia. What's that to an artist, sir? Life in me packs
The germinal grain of all, and what may come
To birth and bloom, I leave to nursing Fate.
But you seem ruffled,—warm. Pray have my fan.
Then take my parchment,—sit you in this nook
And read of Corys and his water-nymph
Until the charm of an unhurrying world
Steals wave-like round you.
Ste. Olympus! Was 't this voice
That tripped my reason? Led my cautious years
To take instruction from a dizzened ape
And lose the cause they guarded? Was 't myself
So slubbered judgment——
Bia. Ah, must I believe
You honored my good counsel?
Ste. Good!
Bia. 'Twas good
For Athens. Ha, you slipped into the noose
As easily as my finger takes this ring.
A wondrous sapphire here. You know the stone?
This is from Egypt,—has the desert fire
'Neath Nilus' liquid smile. Is 't not a treasure?
But I forget. Your Sparta has no gems.
By Hera's belt, your country goes too bare
For this adornèd earth!
Ste. Come, Biades!
Throw off that gown, and with a captain's sword
Deny this folly!
Bia. Friend, 'tis not my hour
For exercise. Our moods, I see, would quarrel.
But here's my thornless world. You'll pardon me.
[Resumes walking and reading as before. Pyrrha enters, middle left, and stands watching him. He looks up and is struck motionless to find her eyes upon him. She comes nearer for a detached scrutiny, then crosses right]