IPHIGENIA.

What dare I do? The law must be obeyed.

ORESTES.

A girl to hold a sword and stab men dead!

IPHIGENIA.

I shall but sign the water on thy head.

ORESTES.

And who shall strike me, if I needs must ask?

IPHIGENIA.

There be within these vaults who know their task.

ORESTES.

My grave, when they have finished their desire?

IPHIGENIA.

A great gulf of the rock, and holy fire.

ORESTES.

Woe's me!

Would that my sister's hand could close mine eyes!

IPHIGENIA.

Alas, she dwelleth under distant skies, Unhappy one, and vain is all thy prayer.

Yet, Oh, them art from Argos: all of care That can be, I will give and fail thee not.

Rich raiment to thy burial shall be brought, And oil to cool thy pyre in golden floods, And sweet that from a thousand mountain buds The murmuring bee hath garnered, I will throw To die with thee in fragrance. ...

I must go And seek the tablet from the G.o.ddess' room Within.--Oh, do not hate me for my doom!

Watch them, ye servitors, but leave them free.

It may be, past all hoping, it may be, My word shall sail to Argos, to his hand Whom most I love. How joyous will he stand To know, past hope, that here on the world's rim His dead are living, and cry out for him!

[She goes into the Temple.]

CHORUS.

Alas, we pity thee; surely we pity thee: [Strophe.]

Who art given over to the holy water, The drops that fall deadly as drops of blood.

ORESTES.

I weep not, ye Greek maidens: but farewell.

CHORUS.

[ANTISTROPHE.]

Aye, and rejoice with thee; surely rejoice with thee, Thou happy rover from the place of slaughter; Thy foot shall stand again where thy father's stood.

PYLADES.

While he I love must die? 'Tis miserable.

DIVERS WOMEN OF THE CHORUS.

A. Alas, the deathward faring of the lost!

B. Woe, woe; thou too shalt move to misery.

C Which one shall suffer most?

D. My heart is torn by two words evenly, For thee should I most sorrow, or for thee?

ORESTES.

By heaven, is THY thought, Pylades, like mine?

PYLADES.

O friend, I cannot speak.--But what is thine?

ORESTES.

Who can the damsel be? How Greek her tone Of question, all of Ilion overthrown, And how the kings came back, the wizard flame Of Calchas, and Achilles' mighty name, And ill-starred Agamemnon. With a keen Pity she spoke, and asked me of his queen And children ... The strange woman comes from there By race, an Argive maid.--What aileth her With tablets, else, and questionings as though Her own heart beat with Argos' joy or woe?

PYLADES.

Thy speech is quicker, friend, else I had said The same; though surely all men visited By ships have heard the fall of the great kings.

But let that be: I think of other things ...

ORESTES.

What? If thou hast need of me, let it be said.

PYLADES.

I cannot live for shame if thou art dead.

I sailed together with thee; let us die Together. What a coward slave were I, Creeping through Argos and from glen to glen Of wind-torn Phocian hills! And most of men-- For most are bad--will whisper how one day I left my friend to die and made my way Home. They will say I watched the sinking breath Of thy great house and plotted for thy death To wed thy sister, climb into thy throne...

I dread, I loathe it.--Nay, all ways but one Are shut. My last breath shall go forth with thine, Thy b.l.o.o.d.y sword, thy gulf of fire be mine Also. I love thee and I dread men's scorn.

ORESTES.

Peace from such thoughts! My burden can be borne; But where one pain sufficeth, double pain I will not bear. Nay, all that scorn and stain That fright thee, on mine own head worse would be If I brought death on him who toiled for me.

It is no bitter thing for such an one As G.o.d will have me be, at last to have done With living. THOU art happy; thy house lies At peace with G.o.d, unstained in men's eyes; Mine is all evil fate and evil life ...

Nay, thou once safe, my sister for thy wife-- So we agreed:--in sons of hers and thine My name will live, nor Agamemnon's line Be blurred for ever like an evil scroll.

Back! Rule thy land! Let life be in thy soul!

And when thou art come to h.e.l.las, and the plain Of Argos where the hors.e.m.e.n ride, again-- Give me thy hand!--I charge thee, let there be Some death-mound and a graven stone for me.

My sister will go weep thereat, and shear A tress or two. Say how I ended here, Slain by a maid of Argolis, beside G.o.d's altar, in mine own blood purified.

And fare thee well. I have no friend like thee For truth and love, O boy that played with me, And hunted on Greek hills, O thou on whom Hath lain the hardest burden of my doom!

Farewell. The Prophet and the Lord of Lies Hath done his worst. Far out from Grecian skies With craft forethought he driveth me, to die Where none may mark how ends his prophecy!

I trusted in his word. I gave him all My heart. I slew my mother at his call; For which things now he casts me here to die.

PYLADES.

Thy tomb shall fail thee not. Thy sister I Will guard for ever. I, O stricken sore, Who loved thee living and shall love thee more Dead. But for all thou standest on the brink, G.o.d's promise hath not yet destroyed thee. Think!

How oft, how oft the darkest hour of ill Breaks brightest into dawn, if Fate but will!

ORESTES.

Enough. Nor G.o.d nor man can any more Aid me. The woman standeth at the door.