seer, had drawn him aside, and earnestly warned him to keep Ajax within doors till sunset. The wrath of Minerva would last for the space of this one day, which was destined to bring him death or life. But the warning and the message have come too late. Ajax has already gone forth, and the Chorus—realising the irony of his farewell speech to them—hurriedly summon Tecmessa, and disperse themselves to seek their prince, and stay his hand while there may yet be time.
For a moment the stage is vacant; then, by a skilful appliance of machinery, the scene changes. The sea still heaves in the distance; but, instead of the tents of the Salaminian sailors, there is seen the dark and lonely "grove by the shore," and near it stands Ajax himself, looking steadfastly at his sword, which is fixed point upwards with the hilt buried in the earth. All things, he says, are ready for the sacrifice. The sword that is to slay him—Hector's fatal gift, but his best friend now—is ready sharpened, and fixed where it may strike the surest blow. Then he invokes the gods, with whom he makes his peace by his blood. Let Zeus summon Teucer by a "swift rumour," that he may protect his body from the insults of his enemies; let Mercury guide his soul to a home of rest, after it has parted from his body "at one swift bound—without a struggle;" let the Furies avenge his wrongs, and "spare not the Greek host, but lap their fill of slaughter." Then a softer spirit comes over him, and he bids farewell to life—not with the bitter and half-affected
