Lys. I—you, sir——
Bia. You'll bear my grace
To our priestly captains?
Lys. You stay here?
Bia. I shall,
If you'll not press me other. As you pray
For clearer omen and a morning battle,
Let only those whose land holds them untainted
Stand in the holy ring.
Lys. Above our prayers
This act will speak to Heaven in Sparta's name
And make her gods your own.
Bia. If that might be,
Lysander! To have no altars is a fate
Man can not bear for long.
Hie. The rowers, sir!
How soon do they return?
Bia. They've leave to see
The midnight toward with their fellow crew
On the Ino.
Hie. Midnight!
Bia. Loyal beggars, all.
They're sad to lose their captain, and I pay
Their grieving flattery with this stinted lease
From duty here. They'll use 't in prayerful rite——