Iphigeneia.
O noble spirit! from what princely stock
Hast thou sprung, thou so loyal to thy friends!610
Even such be he that of my father's house
Is left alive! For, stranger, brotherless
I too am not, save that I see him not.
Since thou wilt have it so, him will I send
Bearing the letter: thou wilt die. Ah, deep615
This thy strange yearning unto death must be!
Orestes.
Whose shall be that dread deed, my sacrifice?
Iphigeneia.
Mine; for this office hold I of the Goddess.
Orestes.
A task, O maid, unenviable, unblest.
Iphigeneia.
Bowed 'neath necessity, I must submit. 620
Orestes.
A woman, with the priest's knife slay'st thou men?
Iphigeneia.
Nay, on thine hair I shed but lustral spray.
Orestes.
The slayer, who?—if I may ask thee this.
