Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/386

348 MEROPE.

That murderous axe away!

ÆPYTUS.

Thy son is here.

MEROPE.

One said so, sure, but now.

ÆPYTUS.

Here, here thou hast him!

MEROPE.

Slaughter'd by this hand!...

ÆPYTUS.

No, by the Gods, alive and like to live!

MEROPE.

What, thou?—I dream ——

ÆPYTUS.

May'st thou dream ever so!

MEROPE (advancing towards him).

My child? unhurt?...

ÆPYTUS.

Only by over joy.

MEROPE.

Art thou, then, come?...