At this point of the story, the _Antigone_ of Sophocles opens. Creon has heard a rumour of defiance, and has added a penalty of death to his decree. The sisters are alone outside the palace. Antigone, not doubting of Ismene for a moment, rapidly puts before her a plan for Polynices’ burial. They must act at once, quickly and quietly, before Creon may have time to prevent them. To her utter amazement, however, Ismene will not help her. She is a gentle, timid creature: she cannot think it possible that Antigone will dare to defy Creon’s edict: the mere suggestion terrifies her. She cannot rise to Antigone’s perception of a law higher than this ugly mandate against the dead; and if she could, she is not of the heroic fibre to make a stand against authority. She sees and admits that this vengeful edict must needs offend the gods; but for her part, she can only pray to be held guiltless of it. She is not lacking in love and loyalty to her kin. When Œdipus and Antigone were wandering in beggary, Ismene had secretly contrived to send them aid; and once she had ridden a perilous journey in order to warn them of danger. She is no craven. Only, she is oppressed by a sense of physical weakness: the forces which Antigone will challenge are overwhelming, and will surely crush her. Is it not rash and sinful to attempt the impossible? “_O think how beyond all Most piteously we two shall be destroyed, If in defiance of authority We traverse the commandment of the king!_“[24] Antigone is bitterly disappointed. She had gauged Ismene by herself, and thought her courage would be equal to her love. To her the duty to their dead is a holy act, crying aloud for fulfilment, and shining far above this tyrannous decree. It is so clear to her eager spirit that she cannot doubt or hesitate. She had thought that one word to Ismene would enlist her help; and instead, she is met with puerile answers counselling prudence and submission. Her passionate soul flames into indignation, and in her anger she is less than just to Ismene. Despite her heroism, she is simply human. Nor is she, as has sometimes been suggested, like a martyr of the early Christian era, whose humility and gentleness would bless the hand that smote. Antigone’s warm heart is as strong in its hatred as its love; absolute in devotion, but impetuous in anger; capable of supreme self-sacrifice, and tender to infirmity; but intolerant of moral weakness and meanness and timidity. She retorts in scorn upon Ismene: