One alone in all this land Would know his face. ORESTES. The thrall, methinks, whose hand Stole him from death--or so the story ran? ELECTRA. He taught my father, too, an old old man Of other days than these. ORESTES. Thy father's grave... He had due rites and tendance? ELECTRA. What chance gave, My father had, cast out to rot in the sun. ORESTES. God, 'tis too much!... To hear of such things done Even to a stranger, stings a man.... But speak, Tell of thy life, that I may know, and seek Thy brother with a tale that must be heard Howe'er it sicken. If mine eyes be blurred, Remember, 'tis the fool that feels not. Aye, Wisdom is full of pity; and thereby Men pay for too much wisdom with much pain. LEADER. My heart is moved as this man's. I would fain Learn all thy tale. Here dwelling on the hills Little I know of Argos and its ills. ELECTRA. If I must speak--and at love's call, God knows, I fear not--I will tell thee all; my woes, My father's woes, and--O, since thou hast stirred This storm of speech, thou bear him this my word-- His woes and shame! Tell of this narrow cloak In the wind; this grime and reek of toil, that choke My breathing; this low roof that bows my head After a king's. This raiment ... thread by thread, 'Tis I must weave it, or go bare--must bring, Myself, each jar of water from the spring. No holy day for me, no festival, No dance upon the green! From all, from all I am cut off. No portion hath my life 'Mid wives of Argos, being no true wife. No portion where the maidens throng to praise Castor--my Castor, whom in ancient days, Ere he passed from us and men worshipped him, They named my bridegroom!-- And she, she!... The grim Troy spoils gleam round her throne, and by each hand Queens of the East, my father's prisoners, stand, A cloud of Orient webs and tangling gold. And there upon the floor, the blood, the old Black blood, yet crawls and cankers, like a rot In the stone! And on our father's chariot The murderer's foot stands glorying, and the red False hand uplifts that ancient staff, that led The armies of the world!... Aye, tell him how The grave of Agamemnon, even now, Lacketh the common honour of the dead; A desert barrow, where no tears are shed, No tresses hung, no gift, no myrtle spray. And when the wine is in him, so men say, Our mother's mighty master leaps thereon, Spurning the slab, or pelteth stone on stone, Flouting the lone dead and the twain that live: "Where is thy son Orestes? Doth he give Thy tomb good tendance? Or is all forgot?" So is he scorned because he cometh not....