Then Electra speaks to the Chorus. How, she asks, can I fulfil my task, and offer these libations to my father? I cannot say, "These are a loving wife's gifts to her husband." Shall I pray that she who sent them may be requited?
"Or, with no mark of honour, silently,
For so my father perished, shall I pour
These vain oblations to the thirsty earth,
Then, tossing o'er my head the lustral urn,
(As one who loathèd refuse forth has cast,)
With eyes averted, back retrace my steps?"
The Chorus bids her accompany the offerings with good wishes for the righteous—for herself, that is, and all who hate Ægisthus—and for Orestes her exiled brother, and pray that on the guilty some god or mortal may come in vengeance. All this is dimly and gradually suggested, and then Electra prays. In perfect beauty she stands before us, sorrow mingled with righteous anger, and prays to the gods below and mother Earth, and to her father's spirit, that they may pity her slavish lot and bring home Orestes from his exile, and that her father's murderess may be justly slain. Then solemnly she ascends the steps of the tomb and pours out the libation, while the Chorus sings a short hymn of grief for the lost warrior. Suddenly Electra's white arm is raised, the dark folds of her dress falling off from it, for she has found upon the tomb her brother's votive lock, and now holds it up in wonder to show it to the Chorus. They cannot guess from whom it comes, but the truth quickly
