MEDEA (sorrowfully).
Whither? Ah, whither?
GORA. Here in this stranger-land
There is no place for us. They hate thee sore,
These Greeks, and they will slay thee!
MEDEA. Slay me? Me?
Nay, it is I will slay them!
GORA. And at home,
There in far Colchis, danger waits us, too!
MEDEA. O Colchis, Colchis! O my fatherland!
GORA. Thou hast heard the tale, how thy father died
When thou wentest forth, and didst leave thy home,
And thy brother fell? He died, says the tale,
But methinks 'twas not so? Nay, he gripped his grief,
Sharper far than a sword, and, raging 'gainst Fate,
'Gainst himself, fell on death!
MEDEA. Dost thou, too, join my foes?
Wilt thou slay me?
GORA. Nay, hark! I warned thee. I said:
"Flee these strangers, new-come; most of all flee this man,
Their leader smooth-tongued, the dissembler, the traitor!"
MEDEA. "Smooth-tongued, the dissembler, the traitor"
—were these thy words?