Creusa Ha! what unlooked-for sight is here?
Ion Peace, woman! now, as erst, thou art my enemy.
Creusa Silence is not for me. Bid me not be still; for lo! I see the ark wherein I did expose thee, my child, in days gone by, whilst yet a tender babe. So now will I leave this altar, though death await me.
Ion Seize her; she is mad, springing thus from the shelter of the carved altar. Bind her arms.
Creusa Kill! spare not! for I to thee will cleave, and to this ark, and all that is within it.
Ion Is not this monstrous? here am I laid claim to on a specious pretext.
Creusa Nay, nay, but as a friend art thou by friends now found.
Ion I a friend of thine! and wouldst thou, then, have slain me privily?
Creusa Thou art my child, if that is what a parent holds most dear.
Ion An end to thy web of falsehood! Right well will I convict thee.
Creusa My child, that is my aim; God grant I reach it!
Ion Is this ark empty, or hath it aught within?
Creusa Thy raiment wherein I exposed thee long ago.
Ion Wilt put a name thereto before thou see it?
Creusa Unless I describe it, I offer to die.
Ion Say on; there is something strange in this thy confidence.
Creusa Behold the robe my childish fingers wove.
Ion Describe it; maidens weave many a pattern.
Creusa ’Tis not perfect, but a first lesson, as it were, in weaving.
Ion Describe its form; thou shalt not catch me thus.
Creusa A Gorgon figures in the centre of the warp.
Ion Great Zeus! what fate is this that dogs my steps?
Creusa ’Tis fringed with snakes like an aegis.
Ion Lo! ’tis the very robe; how true we find the voice of God!
Creusa Ah! woven work that erst my virgin shuttle wrought.
Ion Is there aught beside, or stays thy lucky guessing here?
Creusa There be serpents, too, with jaws of gold, an old-world symbol.
Ion Is that Athena’s gift, bidding her race grow up under their guardianship?
Creusa Yes, to copy our ancestor Erichthonius.
Ion What is their object? what the use of these golden gauds? pray, tell.
Creusa Necklaces for the new-born babe to wear, my child.
Ion Lo! here they lie. Yet would I know the third sign.
Creusa About thy brow I bound an olive-wreath that day, plucked from the tree Athena first made grow on her own rock. If haply that is there, it hath not lost its verdure yet, but still is fresh, for it came from the stock that grows not old.
Ion
Mother, dearest mother, with what rapture I behold thee, as on thy cheeks, that share my joy, I press my lips!
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