tra; and as they come, looking about for their victim, their leader says,—
"'Tis well; sure token this, the man is here.
Follow the leading of this voiceless guide;
For still we track, as hound the wounded fawn,
By blood and reeking drops, our destined prey;
With many a toilsome man-outwearing gasp
Pant my deep vitals, for on every spot
Of the wide earth my charge I shepherded,
And now, in hot pursuit, with wingless flight,
Swift as swift galley o'er the sea I course;
Here in some nook ensconced the game must lie;
With keenest joy I snuff the scent of blood."
Then in lyric strains they exhort one another to the search, and when they see the suppliant at the goddess's side, they repeat their threats of vengeance. Again Orestes speaks, and a noble calmness and confidence pervades his words. "Pale now," he says,—
"Pale now, and dim, the blood-mark on my hand;
Washed clean away the matricidal stain;"
and now with pure lips I pray to Pallas to come from her distant dwelling by the Lybian Lake of Trito, or from whatever spot may hold her, "and be my saviour from those miseries." The Chorus of Furies defy his prayers. He is their victim, and no god shall save him, and they sing their Binding Hymn which will make him fully theirs. Anything more terrible than the intense malignity of this ode it is difficult to imagine. The witches in Macbeth around the fatal cal-
