In the marvellous scene which follows Aeschylus reaches the pinnacle of tragic power. Cassandra advances to the palace, but starts back in horror as a series of visions of growing vividness comes before her eyes. These find utterance in language of blended sanity and madness, creating a terror whose very vagueness increases its intensity. First she sees Atreus' cruel murder of his brother's children; then follows the sight of Clytemnestra's treacherous smile and of Agamemnon in the bath, hand after hand reaching at him; quickly she sees the net cast about him, the murderess' blow. In a flash she foresees her own end and breaks out into a wild lament over the ruin of her native city. Her words work up the Chorus into a state of confused dread and foreboding; they can neither understand nor yet disbelieve. When their mental confusion is at its height, relief comes in a prophecy of the greatest clearness, no longer couched in riddling terms. The palace is peopled by a band of kindred Furies, who have drunk their fill of human blood and cannot be cast out; they sit there singing the story of the origin of its ruin, loathing the murder of the innocent children. Agamemnon himself would soon pay the penalty, but his son would come to avenge him. Foretelling her own death, she hurls away the badges of her office, the sceptre and oracular chaplets, things which have brought her nothing but ridicule. She prays for a peaceful end without a struggle; comparing human life to a shadow when it is fortunate and to a picture wiped out by a sponge when it is hapless, she moves in calmly to her fate. There is a momentary interval of reflection, then Agamemnon's dying voice is heard as he is stricken twice. Frantic with horror, the Chorus prepare to rush within but are checked by the Queen, who throws open the door and stands glorying in the triumph of self-confessed murder. Her real character is revealed in her speech. "This feud was not unpremeditated; rather, it proceeds from an ancient quarrel, matured by time. Here I stand where I smote him, over my handiwork. So I contrived it, I freely confess, that he could neither escape his fate nor defend himself. I cast over him the endless net, and I smote him twice--in two groans he gave up the ghost--adding a third in grateful thanksgiving to the King of the dead in the nether world. As he fell he gasped out his spirit, and breathing a swift stream of gore he smote me with a drop of murderous dew, while I rejoiced even as does the cornfield under the Heavensent shimmering moisture when it brings the ears to the birth. Ye Argive Elders, rejoice if ye can, but I exult. If it were fitting to pour thank-offerings for any death, 'twere just, nay, more than just, to offer such for him, so mighty was the bowl of curses he filled up in his home, then came and drank them up himself to the dregs."