[Pyrrha snatches the parchment from his bosom]
Bia. You bat—you mole—you cur-born flea——
Clea. [To Hieron] O, sir,
Your mercy! Save me from him!
Hie. Wait without.
Pyrr. Full pardon! Bring the irons! We are sold!
Irons for Biades!
Bia. [Accepting defeat] Ay, let me wear
My honor's livery. Every foe-locked gyve
Will be my country's kiss, and make my blood
Flow proud beneath it. Irons! Load me down,
Now that you know me man, and not the thrall
Of vilest fear that buys suspected breath
With a mother-city's doom.
Pyrr. I'll grant you, sir,
That by this act you do no longer lie
In the unconsidered trash of estimation,
But have crept up in my surprisèd mind
To where I keep my jewels of regard.
That is soon said,—but for the rest, you die.
And more than die, for we shall hurl your name
A palsy over Athens.
Bia. You'll not fight
Athens and Persia!
Pyrr. Persia is not lost.
Your signal is unlit.
Hie. But we'll light ours!
Three cressets——