ELECTRA. If it was dipt From head in Argos, it should be my own.[n17] CHORUS. For they that should have shorn the mourning lock Are foes, not friends. ELECTRA. 'Tis like, O strange! how like! CHORUS. Like what? What strange conception stirs thy brain? ELECTRA. 'Tis like--O strange!--to these same locks I wear. And yet-- CHORUS. Not being yours, there's none, I know, Can claim it but Orestes. ELECTRA. In sooth, 'tis like. Trimmed with one plume Orestes was and I. CHORUS. But how should he have dared to tread this ground? ELECTRA. Belike, he sent it by another's hand, A votive lock to grace his father's tomb. CHORUS. Small solace to my grief, if that he lives, Yet never more may touch his native soil. ELECTRA. I, too, as with a bitter wave was lashed, And pierced, as with an arrow, at the sight Of this loved lock; and from my thirsty eyne {105} With troubled overflowings unrestrained The full tide gushes: for none here would dare To gift a lock to Agamemnon's grave; No citizen, much less the wife that slew him. My mother most unmotherly, her own children With godless hate pursuing, evil-minded: And though to think this wandering lock have graced My brother's head--even his--my loved Orestes, Were bliss too great, yet will I hold the hope. O that this lock might with articulate voice Pronounce a herald's tale, and I no more This way and that with dubious thought be swayed! That I might know if from a hostile head 'Twas shorn, and hate it as it hate deserves, Or, if from friends, my sorrows' fellow make it, The dearest grace of my dear father's tomb! But the gods know our woes; them we invoke, Whirled to and fro in eddies of dark doubt, Like vessels tempest-tossed. If they will save us, They have the power from smallest seed to raise The goodliest tree. But lo! a further proof[n18]-- Footsteps, a perfect print, that seem to bear A brotherhood with mine! Nay, there are two-- This claimed by him, and that by some true friend That shares his wanderings. See, the heel, the sole, Thus measured with my own, prove that they were Both fashioned in one mould. 'Tis very strange! I'm racked with doubt, my wits are wandering. ORESTES. (_coming forward_) Nay, rather thank the gods! Thy first prayer granted, Pray that fair end may fair beginning follow.[n19] ELECTRA. Sayest thou? What cause have I to thank the gods? ORESTES. Even here before thee stands thine answered prayer. ELECTRA. One man I wish to see: dost know him--thou? ORESTES. Thy wish of wishes is to see Orestes. ELECTRA. Even so: but wishing answers no man's prayer. ORESTES. I am the man. No dearer one expect That wears that name. ELECTRA. Nay, but this is some plot? ORESTES. That were to frame a plot against myself. ELECTRA. Unkind, to scoff at my calamities!