Boys, hither!—hang upon your father's cloak. 520
Speed ye, unhand him not; for this is he,
Your helper he, no worse than Saviour Zeus.
Enter Herakles.
Herakles.
All hail, mine house, hail, portals of mine hearth!
How blithe, returned to light, I look on you!
Ha! what is this?—my sons before the halls 525
In death's attire and with heads chapleted!—
And, mid a throng of men, my very wife!—
My father weeping over some mischance!
Come, let me draw nigh these and question them.
Wife, what strange stroke hath fallen on mine house? 530
Megara.
O best-beloved!—to thy sire light of life!
Art come?—art saved for friends' most desperate need?
Herakles.
How?—father, what confusion find I here?
Megara.
We are at point to die!—thy pardon, ancient,
That I before thee snatch thy right of speech, 535
For woman is more swift than man to mourn,
And my sons were to die, and I was doomed.
Herakles.
Apollo!—what strange prelude to thy speech!
Megara.
Dead are my brethren and my grey-haired sire.
