Nac. But come! Our dance! We yet are Spartan maids.
Dia. [Taking wreath from her hair] Our flowers are far
from morning. See, these buds
Are pale as they had never known the dew.
But I know where some fleecy clusters blow
And daintily edge the stream. Like tiny birds,
Green-necked and lily-winged, they are alight
A hundred to a stem. I'll have a wreath
Of them.
Myr. And I. These sad things are less bright
Than locks they should adorn.
Art. New garlands, all!
Where grow these favors? Dianessa, lead!
[They go off, rear left. Pyrrha waits a meditative moment, then turns to follow. A bough brushes her cheek. She puts up her hand and plucks a bunch of berries from it]
Pyrr. 'Tis like his ruby. Nature loved them both
With the same kiss,—the berry and the stone.
[Fastens cluster to her bosom]
"Heaven should have its sun." This sun will fade,
But that I threw away had ne'er lost hue
So near my heart, giving and taking fire.
[Something thrown from the bushes falls at her feet. She gazes
at it, not taking it up]
Ah! Biades' jewel! Who.... [Looks about guardedly]
[Biades comes from the woods. He is dressed as a Helot in a scant tunic of goat-skin, and wears a large cap]
Pyrr. Whose slave are you,
Bold Helot?
Bia. [Kneeling] Thine! [Takes off cap, revealing his quantity of
dark curls]
Pyrr. Are you in love with death,
That you have come to Sparta?