Clytemnestra.
Alas! of these dark words the sense I catch;
Through guile we perish, as through guile we slew.
Quick, bring a deadly axe;—
We'll see anon
Whether we vanquished are, or vanquisher;
For to this crisis hath the evil come.
[Orestes and Pylades come forth from the palace, the door of which remains open.]
Orestes.
Thee too I seek,—he there hath had his due.
Clytemnestra.
Alas! beloved Ægisthos, art thou dead?
Orestes.
Dost love this man? With him, in the same tomb, 880
Then shalt thou lie;—still faithful found in death.
Clytemnestra.
Hold! hold! my son;—Revere, my child, this breast
From which, a sleeping infant, thou full oft,
With toothless gums, thy nurture-milk hast sucked.
Orestes.
Speak, Pylades;—Through filial reverence,
Shall I forbear to shed a mother's blood?
Pylades.
The Pythian oracles, still unfulfilled,
