But the marriage-chant rang not the altar beside,
But tears streamed, voices of wailing cried; 860
Woe, woe for the lustral-drops there shed!
Orestes.
I wail, I too, the deed my father dared.
Iphigeneia.
An unfatherly father by doom was allotted to me;
Yet ills out of ills rise ceaselessly
By a God's decree![1]
Orestes.
Ah, hadst thou slain thy brother, hapless one!
Iphigeneia.
Woe for my crime! I took in hand a deed
Of horror, brother! Scant escape was thine 870
From god-accursed destruction, even to bleed
By mine hand, mine!
Yea, now what end to all this doth remain?
What shrouded fate shall yet encounter me?
By what device from this land home again
Shall I speed thee
From slaughter, and to Argos bid depart,
Or ever with thy blood incarnadined 880
The sword be? 'Tis thy task, O wretched heart,
The means to find.
