ELECTRA
Electra
What proof, what evidence! What sight, poor girl,
Lit this illusion in thy fevered brain?
Chrysothemis
O, as thou lov’st me, listen, then decide,
My story told, if I am mad or sane.
Electra
Well, if it pleases thee to speak, speak on.
Chrysothemis
I will, and tell thee all that I have seen.
As I approached our sire’s ancestral tomb,
I noted that the barrow still was wet
With streams of milk, and round the monument
Garlands were wreathed of every flower that blows,
I marvelled much and peered around in dread
Of someone watching me; but when I found
That nothing stirred, nearer the tomb I crept;
And there upon the grave’s edge lay a lock
Of hair fresh-severed; at the sight there flashed
A dear familiar image on my soul,
Orestes; ’twas a token and a sign
From him whom most of all the world I love.
I took it in my hands and not a sound
I uttered but my eyes o’erbrimmed for joy.
I knew, I knew it then as now, for sure:
This shining treasure could be none but his.
Who else could set it there save thee or me?
And ’twas not I assuredly, nor thou;
How couldst thou, when thou mayst not leave the house
Not e’en to sacrifice? Our mother then?
When did our mother’s heart that way incline?
