162
THE FURIES.
Chorus.
Though we be many, brief shall be our tale.
(To Orestes) Answer thou, setting word to match with word;
And first avow—hast thou thy mother slain?
Orestes.
I slew her. I deny no word hereof.
Chorus.
Three falls decide the wrestle—this is one.
Orestes.
Thou vauntest thee—but o'er no final fall.
Chorus.
Yet must thou tell the manner of thy deed.
Orestes.
Drawn sword in hand, I gashed her neck. 'Tis told.
Chorus.
But by whose word, whose craft, wert thou impelled?
Orestes.
By oracles of him who here attests me.
Chorus.
The prophet-god bade thee thy mother slay?
Orestes.
Yea, and thro' him not ill I fared, till now.
Chorus.
If the vote grip thee, thou shalt change that word.
