The music rose and fell like dashing waves upon a fearful coast--through one of the most agonizing scenes ever imagined by poet, ever expressed in art. Wonderful theme!--the terror-stricken anguish of the girl, little more than a child, startled suddenly from bridal dreams into this open-eyed vision of a hideous doom; the helpless remorse of the father; the misery of the mother; and behind it all the pitiless fate--the savage creed--the blood-thirst of the goddess--and the maddened army howling for its prey. Marcia covered her eyes a moment. "Horrible!" she said, shivering, "too horrible!" Newbury shook his head, smiling. "No! You'll see. She carries in her hands the fate of her race--of the Hellenic, the nobler world, threatened by the barbarian, the baser world. She dies, to live. It's the motive of all great art--all religion. Ah--here is Achilles!" There followed the strangest, pitifulest love scene. Achilles, roused to fury by the foul use made of his great name in the plot against the girl, adopts the shrinking, lovely creature as his own. She has been called his bride; she shall be his bride; and he will fight for her--die for her--if need be. And suddenly, amid the clashing horror of the story, there springs up for an instant the red flower of love. Iphigenia stands dumb in the background, while her mother wails, and Achilles, the goddess-born, puts on his armor and his golden-crested helmet. An exultant sword-song rises from the orchestra. There is a gleam of hope; and the girl, as she looks at her champion, loves him. The music sank into tenderness, flowing like a stream in summer. And the whole vast audience seemed to hold its breath. "Marvelous!" The word was Newbury's. He turned to look at his companion, and the mere energy of his feeling compelled Marcia's eyes to his. Involuntarily, she smiled an answer. But the golden moment dies!--forever. Shrieking and crashing, the vulture-forces of destruction sweep upon it. Messengers rush in, announcing blow on blow. Achilles' own Myrmidons have turned against him. Agamemnon is threatened--Achilles--Argos! The murderous cries of the army fill the distance like the roar of an uncaged beast. Iphigenia raises her head. The savage, inexorable music still surges and thunders round her. And just as Achilles is about to leave her, in order to throw himself on the spears of his own men, her trance breaks.