All Wasted! And yet 'tis that lost hope withal I cannot brook. But now I turned aside To see my master's grave. All, far and wide, Was silence; so I bent these knees of mine And wept and poured drink-offerings from the wine I bear the strangers, and about the stone Laid myrtle sprays. And, child, I saw thereon Just at the censer slain, a fleeced ewe, Deep black, in sacrifice: the blood was new About it: and a tress of bright brown hair Shorn as in mourning, close. Long stood I there And wondered, of all men what man had gone In mourning to that grave.--My child, 'tis none In Argos. Did there come ... Nay, mark me now... Thy brother in the dark, last night, to bow His head before that unadorèd tomb? O come, and mark the colour of it. Come And lay thine own hair by that mourner's tress! A hundred little things make likenesses In brethren born, and show the father's blood. ELECTRA (_trying to mask her excitement and resist the contagion of his_). Old heart, old heart, is this a wise man's mood?... O, not in darkness, not in fear of men, Shall Argos find him, when he comes again, Mine own undaunted ... Nay, and if it were, What likeness could there be? My brother's hair Is as a prince's and a rover's, strong With sunlight and with strife: not like the long Locks that a woman combs.... And many a head Hath this same semblance, wing for wing, tho' bred Of blood not ours.... 'Tis hopeless. Peace, old man. OLD MAN. The footprints! Set thy foot by his, and scan The track of frame and muscles, how they fit! ELECTRA. That ground will take no footprint! All of it Is bitter stone.... It hath?... And who hath said There should be likeness in a brother's tread And sister's? His is stronger every way. OLD MAN. But hast thou nothing...? If he came this day And sought to show thee, is there no one sign Whereby to know him?... Stay; the robe was thine, Work of thy loom, wherein I wrapt him o'er That night and stole him through the murderers' door. ELECTRA. Thou knowest, when Orestes was cast out I was a child.... If I did weave some clout Of raiment, would he keep the vesture now He wore in childhood? Should my weaving grow As his limbs grew?... 'Tis lost long since. No more! O, either 'twas some stranger passed, and shore His locks for very ruth before that tomb: Or, if he found perchance, to seek his home, Some spy... OLD MAN. The strangers! Where are they? I fain Would see them, aye, and bid them answer plain... ELECTRA. Here at the door! How swift upon the thought! _Enter_ ORESTES _and_ PYLADES. OLD MAN. High-born: albeit for that I trust them not. The highest oft are false.... Howe'er it be, [_Approaching them_. I bid the strangers hail! ORESTES. All hail to thee, Greybeard!--Prithee, what man of all the King Trusted of old, is now this broken thing? ELECTRA. 'Tis he that trained my father's boyhood. ORESTES.