ORESTES. Aye; the gods too, whom mortals deem so wise, Are nothing clearer than some winged dream; And all their ways, like man's ways, but a stream Of turmoil. He who cares to suffer least, Not blind, as fools are blinded, by a priest, Goes straight... to what death, those who know him know. LEADER. We too have kinsmen dear, but, being low, None heedeth, live they still or live they not. IPHIGENIA (WITH SUDDEN IMPULSE). Listen! For I am fallen upon a thought, Strangers, of some good use to you and me, Both. And 'tis thus most good things come to be, When different eyes hold the same for fair. Stranger, if I can save thee, wilt thou bear To Argos and the friends who loved my youth Some word? There is a tablet which, in truth For me and mine ill works, a prisoner wrote, Ta'en by the king in war. He knew 'twas not My will that craved for blood, but One on high Who holds it righteous her due prey shall die. And since that day no Greek hath ever come Whom I could save and send to Argos home With prayer for help to any friend: but thou, I think, dost loathe me not; and thou dost know Mycenae and the names that fill my heart. Help me! Be saved! Thou also hast thy part, Sending Completed Page, Please Wait ... IPHIGENIA. 'Tis I. This altar's spell is over me. ORESTES. A grievous office and unblest, O maid. IPHIGENIA. What dare I do? The law must be obeyed. ORESTES. A girl to hold a sword and stab men dead! IPHIGENIA. I shall but sign the water on thy head. ORESTES. And who shall strike me, if I needs must ask? IPHIGENIA. There be within these vaults who know their task. ORESTES. My grave, when they have finished their desire? IPHIGENIA. A great gulf of the rock, and holy fire. ORESTES. Woe's me! Would that my sister's hand could close mine eyes! IPHIGENIA. Alas, she dwelleth under distant skies, Unhappy one, and vain is all thy prayer. Yet, Oh, them art from Argos: all of care That can be, I will give and fail thee not. Rich raiment to thy burial shall be brought, And oil to cool thy pyre in golden floods, And sweet that from a thousand mountain buds The murmuring bee hath garnered, I will throw To die with thee in fragrance. ... I must go And seek the tablet from the Goddess' room Within.--Oh, do not hate me for my doom! Watch them, ye servitors, but leave them free. It may be, past all hoping, it may be, My word shall sail to Argos, to his hand Whom most I love. How joyous will he stand To know, past hope, that here on the world's rim His dead are living, and cry out for him! [She goes into the Temple.] CHORUS. Alas, we pity thee; surely we pity thee: [Strophe.] Who art given over to the holy water, The drops that fall deadly as drops of blood. ORESTES. I weep not, ye Greek maidens: but farewell. CHORUS. [ANTISTROPHE.]