O Stranger, on my knees, I charge thee, tell This tale, not mine, but of dumb wrongs that swell Crowding--and I the trumpet of their pain, This tongue, these arms, this bitter burning brain; These dead shorn locks, and he for whom they died! His father slew Troy's thousands in their pride; He hath but one to kill.... O God, but one! Is he a man, and Agamemnon's son? LEADER. But hold: is this thy husband from the plain, His labour ended, hasting home again? _Enter the_ PEASANT. PEASANT. Ha, who be these? Strange men in arms before My house! What would they at this lonely door? Seek they for me?--Strange gallants should not stay A woman's goings. ELECTRA. Friend and helper!--Nay, Think not of any evil. These men be Friends of Orestes, charged with words for me!... Strangers, forgive his speech. PEASANT. What word have they Of him? At least he lives and sees the day! ELECTRA. So fares their tale--and sure I doubt it not! PEASANT. And ye two still are living in his thought, Thou and his father? ELECTRA. In his dreams we live. An exile hath small power. PEASANT. And did he give Some privy message? ELECTRA. None: they come as spies For news of me. PEASANT. Thine outward news their eyes Can see; the rest, methinks, thyself will tell. ELECTRA. They have seen all, heard all. I trust them well. PEASANT. Why were our doors not open long ago?-- Be welcome, strangers both, and pass below My lintel. In return for your glad words Be sure all greeting that mine house affords Is yours.--Ye followers, bear in their gear!-- Gainsay me not; for his sake are ye dear That sent you to our house; and though my part In life be low, I am no churl at heart. [_The_ PEASANT _goes to the_ ARMED SERVANTS _at the back, to help them with the baggage._ ORESTES (_aside to_ ELECTRA). Is this the man that shields thy maidenhood Unknown, and will not wrong thy father's blood? ELECTRA. He is called my husband. 'Tis for him I toil. ORESTES. How dark lies honour hid! And what turmoil In all things human: sons of mighty men Fallen to naught, and from ill seed again Good fruit: yea, famine in the rich man's scroll Writ deep, and in poor flesh a lordly soul. As, lo, this man, not great in Argos, not With pride of house uplifted, in a lot Of unmarked life hath shown a prince's grace. [_To the_ PEASANT, _who has returned._ All that is here of Agamemnon's race, And all that lacketh yet, for whom we come, Do thank thee, and the welcome of thy home Accept with gladness.--Ho, men; hasten ye Within!--This open-hearted poverty Is blither to my sense than feasts of gold.