CADMUS.

Turn to it now--'tis no long toil--and gaze.

AGAVE.

Ah! But what is it? What am I carrying here?

CADMUS.

Look once upon it full, till all be clear!

AGAVE.

I see . . . most deadly pain! Oh, woe is me!

CADMUS.

Wears it the likeness of a lion to thee?

AGAVE.

No; 'tis the head--O G.o.d!--of Pentheus, this!

CADMUS.

Blood-drenched ere thou wouldst know him! Aye, 'tis his.

AGAVE.

Who slew him?--How came I to hold this thing?

CADMUS.

O cruel Truth, is this thine home-coming?

AGAVE.

Answer! My heart is hanging on thy breath!

CADMUS.

'Twas thou.--Thou and thy sisters wrought his death.

AGAVE.

In what place was it? His own house, or where?

CADMUS.

Where the dogs tore Actaeon, even there.

AGAVE.

Why went he to Kithaeron? What sought he?

CADMUS.

To mock the G.o.d and thine own ecstasy.

AGAVE.

But how should we be on the hills this day?

CADMUS.

Being mad! A spirit drove all the land that way.

AGAVE.

'Tis Dionyse hath done it! Now I see.

CADMUS (_earnestly_).

Ye wronged Him! Ye denied his deity!

AGAVE (_turning from him_).

Show me the body of the son I love!

CADMUS (_leading her to the bier_).

'Tis here, my child. Hard was the quest thereof.

AGAVE.

Laid in due state?

[_As there is no answer, she lifts the veil of the bier, and sees._

Oh, if I wrought a sin, 'Twas mine! What portion had my child therein?

CADMUS.

He made him like to you, adoring not The G.o.d; who therefore to one bane hath brought You and this body, wrecking all our line, And me. Aye, no man-child was ever mine; And now this first-fruit of the flesh of thee, Sad woman, foully here and frightfully Lies murdered! Whom the house looked up unto, [_Kneeling by the body._ O Child, my daughter's child! who heldest true My castle walls; and to the folk a name Of fear thou wast; and no man sought to shame My grey beard, when they knew that thou wast there, Else had they swift reward!--And now I fare Forth in dishonour, outcast, I, the great Cadmus, who sowed the seed-rows of this state Of Thebes, and reaped the harvest wonderful.

O my beloved, though thy heart is dull In death, O still beloved, and alway Beloved! Never more, then, shalt thou lay Thine hand to this white beard, and speak to me Thy "Mother's Father"; ask "Who wrongeth thee?

Who stints thine honour, or with malice stirs Thine heart? Speak, and I smite thine injurers!"

But now--woe, woe, to me and thee also, Woe to thy mother and her sisters, woe Alway! Oh, whoso walketh not in dread Of G.o.ds, let him but look on this man dead!

LEADER.