Pel. Naught, naught, my friend! Yet he but swore to make
The land of Pyrrha his.
Ste. And what meant that
But Sparta? If his warm wooer's oath must cool,
We've winters that will do it.
Pel. Caution's best.
Slow-mare will get you home.
Ste. A year or two
Of good black bread, and free winds on his skin
Will take the maiden from his cheeks and set
A true man's beard there. Tush! I thought that Fate,
Granting my main desire, gave me this plague,
Which, with the rest, now proves my life has pleased
High arbiters. You're silent, Pelagon.
Pel. No, no! Yes, yes! I think so. 'Tis indeed!
Ste. Come, come, my friend! We will go forth and meet
The occasion as a guest, bethinking us
We walk between mankind and deity.
[They start out and are met by Alcanor and Phania who fall before them]
Pha. [Kneeling to Stesilaus] Your blessing, father!
Alc. [At Pelagon's feet] Blessing, dearest father!
Pel. What, what!