at thou comest in
such haste?

Selim. Most mighty king, there waits without a youth, demanding speech
of thee.

Moh'd. A youth! Who may he be, and what seeks he with us?

Selim. Most gracious sire, I know not. Our guard surprised him wandering
without the camp,--alone, unarmed, save with a single sword; young, and
I think a Greek. Abdallah seized him as a spy, and led him hither to
await thy royal will. He doth refuse all question, demanding to be led
before thee, where he will unfold his errand.

Moh'd. A Greek! Bring him before us, an he prove a spy he shall hang
before the day waxeth older by an hour. Hence,--bring him hither!
[_Exit_ Selim.] By Allah! my proud foes have deigned to send us
messengers, and seek to win the favor so rudely scorned. They know not
Mohammed, and, so they humble not themselves, will sue in vain.

[_Enter_ Selim, _dragging_ Ion.

Selim. Your Mightiness doth behold the youth. [_To_ Ion, _who stands
proudly._] Kneel, slave!

Ion. I kneel not unto tyrants.

Moh'd. How, bold stripling! Weigh with more care thy speech, and forget
not before whom thou dost stand. [_To_ Selim.] Go, slave, and stand
without; see that none enter here unbidden. [_Exit_ Selim.] Speak, boy!
Who art thou, and why dost thou seek thus fearlessly the presence of thy
foe?--and beware thou speakest truly if it is as a friend to treat in
honorable fashion, or as a spy, thou now standest before us.

Ion. I am a Greek, son to the noble Cleon, now thy captive; I seek his
rescue.

Moh'd. Son to Cleon! Now, by the Prophet, 'tis wondrous strange! And
thou hast ventured alone into the camp amid thy deadly foes? Speak,
boy,--thine errand!

Ion. To offer hostage; to treat with Mohammed for a father's life; to
move to pity or to justice the heart that hath doomed a noble soldier
unto an unjust death.

Moh'd. And where, my bold prince, are thy followers, thy slaves, thy
royal train?

Ion. On yonder plain, cold in their graves.

Moh'd. Hast thou brought ransom? Where is thy gold?

Ion. In the coffers of the Turkish Mohammed, plundered from his
slaughtered foes.

Moh'd. Thou spakest of hostage,--I see it not.

Ion. 'Tis here,--the son of Cleon.

Moh'd. Thou! and thinkest thou thy young, worthless life were a fit
hostage for the leader of a rebel band, the enemy of all true followers,
whose capture hath cost blood and slaves and gold? By Allah! boy, thou
must name a higher pr