ELDER L. Oh, let us find the truth out, ere we grow Thus passionate! To surmise is not to know. LEADER. Break in, then! ’Tis the counsel ye all bring, And learn for sure, how is it with the King. [_They cluster up towards the Palace Door, as though to force an entrance, when the great Door swings open, revealing_ CLYTEMNESTRA, _who stands, axe in hand, over the dead bodies of_ AGAMEMNON _and_ CASSANDRA. _The body of_ AGAMEMNON _is wrapped in a rich crimson web. There is blood on_ CLYTEMNESTRA’S _brow, and she speaks in wild triumph._] CLYTEMNESTRA. Oh, lies enough and more have I this day Spoken, which now I shame not to unsay. How should a woman work, to the utter end, Hate on a damnèd hater, feigned a friend; How pile perdition round him, hunter-wise, Too high for overleaping, save by lies? To me this hour was dreamed of long ago; A thing of ancient hate. ’Twas very slow In coming, but it came. And here I stand Even where I struck, with all the deed I planned Done! ’Twas so wrought—what boots it to deny?— The man could neither guard himself nor fly. An endless web, as by some fisher strung, A deadly plenteousness of robe, I flung All round him, and struck twice; and with two cries His limbs turned water and broke; and as he lies I cast my third stroke in, a prayer well-sped To Zeus of Hell, who guardeth safe his dead! So there he gasped his life out as he lay; And, gasping, the blood spouted … Like dark spray That splashed, it came, a salt and deathly dew; Sweet, sweet as God’s dear rain-drops ever blew O’er a parched field, the day the buds are born! … Which things being so, ye Councillors high-born, Depart in joy, if joy ye will. For me, I glory. Oh, if such a thing might be As o’er the dead thank-offering to outpour, On this dead it were just, aye, just and more, Who filled the cup of the House with treacheries Curse-fraught, and here hath drunk it to the lees! LEADER. We are astonied at thy speech. To fling, Wild mouth! such vaunt over thy murdered King! CLYTEMNESTRA. Wouldst fright me, like a witless woman? Lo, This bosom shakes not. And, though well ye know, I tell you … Curse me as ye will, or bless, ’Tis all one … This is Agamemnon; this, My husband, dead by my right hand, a blow Struck by a righteous craftsman. Aye, ’tis so. CHORUS. Woman, what evil tree, What poison grown of the ground Or draught of the drifting sea Way to thy lips hath found, Making thee clothe thy heart In rage, yea, in curses burning When thine own people pray? Thou hast hewn, thou hast cast away; And a thing cast away thou art, A thing of hate and a spurning!