Her. You'd say, sir, Hudibrand
Would favor Vardas?
Zir. Short and plain, he does.
Her. What then?
Meg. The Assarians are proud, and where
They think their honor's pricked, their pride out-tops
Their judgment. Chartrien's death, whose ugly weight
Must lie with Cordiaz, will inflame their hearts
Till Hudibrand may send an army on us,
His people clapping to 't. In open day
They'll choose the road his cunning cut by night,
And pray him take it.
Zir. Ay, and where are we,
With Vardas crowned in Goldusan?
Her. I see.
Meg. He'd like my million acres in Peonia
Sliced for his foreign hounds!
[Enter an officer]
Zir. What trouble now?
Off. Prince Chartrien has escaped.