The Chorus break into an exquisite lyric on the power of love; and a few moments afterward Antigone herself crosses the scene, on her way to the place of death. She is to be buried alive, in a rocky tomb in the hills; and this last horror, with the inevitable reaction that has followed on her splendid daring, have wrought a pathetic change in her. All her audacity has gone: the passion of righteous anger has faded out: even her perception is blunted. The vision of a higher law, and the superb confidence that the gods approve her action, have grown dull and faint before this dreadful thing which is coming to her. Her voice falters: her footsteps lag: and on her lips are pitiful words of regret for all the fair things that she is leaving. The old senators are moved, but are sadly inept in their efforts at consolation. Remembering Antigone as she had faced them in her magnificent heroism, they think to comfort her with the thought that there is glory in her death. But Antigone is not heroic now. She is a lonely human soul, confronting the last grim reality; and the well-turned phrases of these comfortable old men are revolting to her. What glory can really compensate for the monstrous injustice that she suffers; for the loss of youth, and lover, and friends; and for the hideous darkness that will quench the light of the sun for her? “_O mockery of my woe! I pray you by our fathers’ holy Fear, Why must I hear Your insults, while in life on earth I stand, O ye that flow In wealth, rich burghers of my bounteous land?... By what enormity of lawless doom, Without one friendly sigh, I go to the strong mound of yon strange tomb— All hapless, having neither part nor room With those who live or those who die._“[24] Even faith seems swept away for a moment in this access of physical weakness. But a gleam comes back, flickering through the clouds of doubt upon that shadowy region of the Underworld: “_Dear will my coming be, father, to thee, And dear to thee, my mother, and to thee, Brother! since with these very hands I decked And bathed you after death, and ministered The last libations._“[24] Then the clouds gather again, and she cannot see anything clearly. Why is she suffering so? Is it possible that she is guilty, that her deed was wrong? In the strange confusion of her soul, truth itself seems to reel, and the form of piety grows blurred. What if, after all, the gods do _NOT_ approve, and it is she who has sinned? But from this most ghastly fear Creon himself unwittingly delivers her. He breaks suddenly into her mourning with a harsh order; and instantly her mind grows clear.