More is there, which, though I be silent here,
A God should understand. No secret thing
Is hidden from the all-seeing sons of Heaven.
Enter the Old Man.
Old M. Kind dames and damsels, may I clearly know
If these be King Aegisthus’ palace-halls?
Ch. They are, sir; you yourself have guessed aright.
Old M. May I guess further that in yonder dame
I see his queen? She looks right royally.
Ch. ’Tis she,—no other,—whom your eyes behold.
Old M. Princess, all hail! To thee and to thy spouse
I come with words of gladness from a friend.
Cly. That auspice I accept. But I would first
Learn from thee who of men hath sent thee forth?
Old M. Phanoteus the Phocian, with a charge of weight.
Cly. Declare it, stranger. Coming from a friend,
Thou bring’st us friendly tidings, I feel sure.
Old M. Orestes’ death. Ye have the sum in brief.
El. Ah me! undone! This day hath ruined me.
Cly. What? Let me hear again. Regard her not.
Old M. Again I say it, Orestes is no more.
El. Undone! undone! Farewell to life and hope!
Cly. (to Electra). See thou to thine own case!
(To Old Man) Now, stranger, tell me
In true discourse the manner of his death.
Old M. For that I am here, and I will tell the whole.
He, entering on the great arena famed
As Hellas’ pride, to win a Delphian prize,
On hearing the loud summons of the man
Calling the foot-race, which hath trial first,
Came forward, a bright form, admired by all.
And when his prowess in the course fulfilled
The promise of his form, he issued forth
Dowered with the splendid meed of victory.—
To tell a few out of the many feats
Of such a hero were beyond my power.
