Bia. A sovereign honor.
Hie. He is of haughty blood,—burns at rebuff——
Bia. Ay, like a hornet blind. A thousand times
I've eased his fret and run his humor's mould
Like summer wax, lest he should break from Sparta
That stood in rigid ruin. Now I leave it!
His anger can be put to gentlest sleep,
But 'tis no babe when stirred. Choose as you will.
Hie. The honor is to you. Be yours the answer.
Bia. I'm worn with him. Three hours to-day I played
His vanity, while chance touched either side,
Waiting the word that should cut through suspense
And seal him ours for battle.
Hie. To huff his pride
'Tween this and dawn would poorly soothe our own
At an uncertain cost. But let him leer
I' the oracles' face....
Bia. He has not sent Alissa?
Hie. There's one so calls herself. Spoke out the name
As we should fall before it.
Bia. She's most free
In Phernes' heart. Knows all the honey-ways
To his secret soul, and what is said to her
He'll hear ere morn. As you love victory,
I hope you met her gently.
Hie. If surprise
Made greeting harsh, I will undo that harm
With softer welcome. And beseech you, sir,
To suffer this mistimed civility
For Sparta's sake.