King.
Away, that thought—
Name it, haste—speak.
Arsaces.
For all the dang'rous toil,
Thirst, hunger, marches long that I've endur'd,
For all the blood I've in thy service spent,
Reward me with Evanthe.
King.
Ha! what said'st thou?—
Vardanes.
The King is mov'd, and angry bites his lip.—
Thro' my benighted soul all-cheering hope
[Aside.
Arsaces.