GORA. She who did slay her son
MEDEA. The very same!
How came it, then? Tell me the tale once more.
GORA. Unwitting, in the chase, he had struck down
Her brother.
MEDEA. Him alone? He did not slay
Her father, too? Nor fled his mother's arms,
Nor thrust her from him, spurned her scornfully?
And yet she struck him dead—that mighty man,
Grim Meleager, her own son! And she—
She was a Greek! Althea was her name.
Well, when her son lay dead—?
GORA. Nay, there the tale
Doth end.
MEDEA. Doth end! Thou'rt right, for death ends all!
GORA. Why stand we here and talk?
MEDEA. Dost think that I
Lack courage for the venture? Hark! I swear
By the high gods, if he had giv'n me both
My babes—But no! If I could take them hence
To journey with me, at his own behest,
If I could love them still, as deep as now
I hate them, if in all this lone, wide world
One single thing were left me that was not
Poisoned, or brought in ruin on my head—
Perchance I might go forth e'en now in peace
And leave my vengeance in the hands of Heaven.
But no! It may not be!
They name me cruel
And wanton, but I was not ever so;
Though I can feel how one may learn to be.
For dread and awful thoughts do shape themselves
Within my soul; I shudder—yet rejoice
Thereat! When all is finished—Gora, hither!
GORA. What wouldst thou?