56
Agamemnon.
Cassandra.
There's no escape; brief respite, nothing more. 1270
Chorus.
Yet to be last is gain at least of time.
Cassandra.
The day is come, small were my gain by flight.
Chorus.
Enduring art thou, and of dauntless mind.
Cassandra.
Yet dear to mortals is a glorious death.
Chorus.
Such words none heareth from the fortunate.
Cassandra.
Alas, my sire, for thee and thy brave sons!
[She suddenly starts back.
Chorus.
What may this mean? What terror drives thee back?
Cassandra.
Alas! alas!
Chorus.
Why this alas, unless some horror scare thee?
Cassandra.
Blood-reeking murder breatheth from these halls. 1280
