“I am not aware of that,” said the King.
“Are not his entrails burned up with fire? Is not his flesh in a state of deliquescence? Has not his skin already peeled off his body? Is he not tormented by incessant gripes and vomitings?”
“Not to my knowledge,” said the King. “The symptoms, as I understand, are not unlike those which I remember to have experienced myself, in a milder form, certainly. He lies in bed, eats and drinks nothing, and incessantly calls upon thee.”
“This is most incomprehensible,” said Mithridata. “There was no drug in my father’s laboratory that could have produced such an effect.”
“The sum of the matter is,” continued the King, “that either thou wilt repair forthwith to my son’s chamber, and subsequently to church; or else unto the scaffold.”
“If it must be so, I choose the scaffold,” said Mithridata resolutely. “Believe me, O King, my appearance in thy son’s chamber would but destroy whatever feeble hope of recovery may remain. I love him beyond everything on earth, and not for worlds would I have his blood on my soul.”
“Chamberlain,” cried the monarch, “bring me a strait waistcoat.”
Driven into a corner, Mithridata flung herself at the King’s feet, taking care, however, not to touch him, and confided to him all her wretched history.
The venerable monarch burst into a peal of laughter. “À bon chat bon rat!” he exclaimed, as soon as he had recovered himself. “So thou art the daughter of my old friend the magician Locusto! I fathomed his craft, and, as he fed his child upon poisons, I fed mine upon antidotes. Never did any child in the world take an equal quantity of physic: but there is now no poison on earth can harm him. Ye are clearly made for each other; haste to his bedside, and, as the spell requires, rid thyself of thy venefic properties in his arms as expeditiously as possible. Thy father shall be bidden to the wedding, and an honoured guest he shall be, for having taught us that the kiss of Love is the remedy for every poison.”