Others. —So it seemed: yet grief for his son consumed him, as the flame wastes the oil of a lamp.
Old Men.—What will become of us! Every change is fraught with danger; uncertainty itself is a danger.
Others.—Grief is an impartial guest: he enters everywhere; into our lowly huts he makes his way and over the threshold of dwellings overflowing with gold. He sits by the king’s bedside as well as by the beggar’s.
Still Others.—And death makes us all equal, the low and the high; and with justice places us in the ground side by side.
Men.—Happy are they who lie beneath the mound—but what of those who remain behind?
Women.—The queen is a widow; and it is equally sorrowful to be a widow, whether in a palace or in a hut.
Other Women.—Now she is completely bereaved! Neither son nor husband with her! What is a woman without support in the world, where only brutal force and injustice reign?
Maidens.— We have come to weep with her. O, unhappy woman!
Men.—Silence! The heavy doors of the palace have creaked on their rusty hinges. Behold, the widow!
Women.—Beautiful is she still. even in mourning, with the crown on her head.
Other Women.—How pale she is, how pale!
Maaidens.—Her step is uncertain: see, now she supports herself against a pillar.
Other Maidens.—Poor woman! Now she lifts her head!
Men.—Silence: she will speak.
Queen Nyola has come forth from the palace with the royal suite, which remains in the rear; the queen comes forward a few paces and remains standing at the top of the flight of steps which leads down to the meadow.
Nyola.—My grief has been dumb hitherto, and I have hidden in the deepest shadow, here in the ancient house of your revered kings, my widow’s mourning, the mourning of a mother bereft of her son: but you have come to mingle your tears with my weeping, and therefore have I come forth to meet you; I have left my golden hall that I may seat myself here on the earth in your midst, that I may shake off my grievous dumbness and burst forth into lamentation with you and sprinkle the dust of the road on my luckless head! (Seats herself on the ground.)
Populace.—O woman grieving over thy husband’s bier,
