[Takes out a piece of coarse, stale bread and offers it to Biades]
Bia. Pardon, sir! I do not hunger.
A Helot shared with me.
Ste. 'Twill keep till you
Would sup. But, you must try our broth, sir. Pulse
Is seething yonder. Youths, bring here a bowl.
We have a guest who'd call his childhood up
In good black brew. Hark, Lenon!
[Whispers to Lenon, who goes off left]
Third Ephor. It is truth.
Amycla was your nurse. I know the year
That she was sent to Athens.
Bia. On her lap
I learned a love for Sparta that returned
In warrior days to blunt my assaulting sword
And wound me from your side. She taught me too
The lyric wafture that dead hero-lips
Send on undying,—songs your young men sing,
And old men flush to hear,—and as a youth
I longed to make my civil Athens street
Echo to Sparta with a brother's call.
Third Ephor. But I am moved.
Fourth Ephor. And I.
Ste. Art grown so old
You'll feed on pap again? Come, Biades,
A song Amycla taught you! One will prove
Your love remembers Sparta.
Bia. Sir, I'm not
Your zany.
Ste. But you'd make my country one,
To antic for you.