"Dead?" exclaimed Nicaeus, rushing up to his companion, and seizing his
arm.

"Worse, much worse!"

"God of Heaven!" exclaimed the young Prince, with almost a frantic air.
"Tell me all, tell me all! This suspense fires my brain. Iskander,
you know not what this woman is to me; the sole object of my being, the
bane, the blessing of my life! Speak, dear friend, speak! I beseech
you! Where is Iduna?"

"A prisoner to the Turk."

"Iduna a prisoner to the Turk. I'll not believe it! Why do we wear
swords? Where's chivalry? Iduna, a prisoner to the Turk! 'Tis false.
It cannot be. Iskander, you are a coward! I am a coward! All are
cowards! A prisoner to the Turk! Iduna! What, the Rose of
Christendom! has it been plucked by such a turbaned dog as Amurath?
Farewell, Epirus! Farewell, classic Athens! Farewell, bright fields
of Greece, and dreams that made them brighter! The sun of all my joy
and hope is set, and set for ever!"

So saying, Nicaeus, tearing his hair and garments, flung himself upon
the floor, and hid his face in his robes.

Iskander paced the room with a troubled step and thoughtful brow.
After some minutes he leant down by the Prince of Athens, and
endeavoured to console him.