What is this body, Madam? The prophet? Is he dead?

JEZEBEL.
Only swooned from cursing your father and mother.

JORAM.
Mother, you are talking very strangely.

JEZEBEL.
I have been mad, by Heaven. Why, Joram, you come to tell my father so;
do you not, boy?

JORAM.
I do not know how to answer you.

JEZEBEL.
You reckon me a curse upon this country?

JORAM.
As my father’s officer I have to report what the citizens feel.

JEZEBEL.
You feel it with them.

JORAM.
Whatever I feel I can restrain; but since you insist, I say that it is hard that my father should be ruined by your Syrian policy and gods and self.

JEZEBEL.
You are half-Syrian.

JORAM.
Through you, I was. But in this war, while I lay wounded, a Syrian trooper kicked me and spurred me in the face. That took my last drop of Syrian blood; your blood. There is nothing Syrian in me now. But I mean to pay the Syrians for that kicking and spurring when they lie wounded. You have made father mild and Ahaziah like yourself; but after them perhaps I shall be King; perhaps sooner.

JEZEBEL.
You are leagued with your father’s enemies. And do you think that they will make you the King?

JORAM.
It is not a question of what I think, but of the needs of this land.

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