“_I have not time to waste out here with her. By this the victims at our midmost hearth Stand ready for the slaughter and the fire;— Rich thank-offerings for mercies long despaired. ... I’ll not demean myself By throwing more words away._“[15] As Clytemnestra passes a second time within doors, the poor captive begins to wail a prophecy of what is about to be enacted there. She mourns for the awful curse upon the house. “_There bides within A band of voices,—all in unison, Yet neither sweet nor tuneful, for their song Is not of blessing. Ay, a revel-rout, Ever emboldened with new draughts of blood, Within these walls, a furious multitude, Hard to drive forth, keep haunt, all of one kin. They cling to the walls; they hymn the primal curse, Their fatal hymn._” She foresees the death of Agamemnon, and her own fate beside him. Twice she approaches the palace and twice recoils in horror. But at last, committing herself to Apollo, she rushes within; and instantly there rises a dreadful cry. It is the voice of the king. “_Ah! Ah! I am mortally stricken, here, in the palace!_” The old men stand paralysed with fear; and before they can move a step to help, the agonized voice cries a second time: “_Oh me! Again I am smitten, to the death!_” There is an instant uproar and outcry. The palace becomes noisy with hurrying feet and clamorous voices; the old men feebly rush this way and that, unable to decide, in their weakness and senility, how to act. In the midst of the disorder, the doors of the palace are thrown open, and Clytemnestra is revealed, weapon in hand, bending over the body of Agamemnon. A dreadful hush falls; and the queen, drawing herself up before the people, deliberately confesses to the deed and declares her motives. “_I, who spake much before to serve my need, Will here unspeak it, unappalled by shame. ... Time, and thought still brooding On that old quarrel, brought me to this blow. ‘Tis done, and here I stand: here where I smote him!— I so contrived it,—that I’ll ne’er deny,— As neither loophole nor defence was left him.... Such—O ye Argive elders who stand here,— Such is the fact. Whereat, an if ye will, Rejoice ye!... Such a cup of death He filled with household crime, and now, returning, Has drained in retribution._”