VOICE.

Ho!  Treason in the house!  I am wounded:  slain.

LEADER.

Hush!  In the castle!  ’Twas a cry
Of some man wounded mortally.

VOICE.

Ah God, another!  I am stricken again.

LEADER.

I think the deed is done.  It was the King
Who groaned....  Stand close, and think if anything....

  [The Old Men gather together under the shock, and debate confusedly.

ELDER B.

I give you straight my judgement.  Summon all
The citizens to rescue.  Sound a call!

ELDER C.

No, no!  Burst in at once without a word! 
In, and convict them by their dripping sword!

ELDER D.

Yes; that or something like it.  Quick, I say,
Be doing!  ’Tis a time for no delay.

ELDER E.

We have time to think.  This opening ...  They have planned
Some scheme to make enslavement of the land.

ELDER F.

Yes, while we linger here!  They take no thought
Of lingering, and their sword-arm sleepeth not!

ELDER G.

I have no counsel.  I can speak not.  Oh,
Let him give counsel who can strike a blow!

ELDER H.

I say as this man says.  I have no trust
In words to raise a dead man from the dust.

ELDER I.

How mean you?  Drag out our poor lives, and stand
Cowering to these defilers of the land?

ELDER J.

Nay, ’tis too much!  Better to strive and die! 
Death is an easier doom than slavery.

ELDER K.

We heard a sound of groaning, nothing plain,
How know we—­are we seers?—­that one is slain?

ELDER L.

Oh, let us find the truth out, ere we grow
Thus passionate!  To surmise is not to know.

LEADER.

Break in, then!  ’Tis the counsel ye all bring,
And learn for sure, how is it with the King.

[They cluster up towards the Palace Door, as though to force an entrance, when the great Door swings open, revealing CLYTEMNESTRA, who stands, axe in hand, over the dead bodies of AGAMEMNON and CASSANDRA. The body of AGAMEMNON is wrapped in a rich crimson web.  There is blood on CLYTEMNESTRA’S_ brow, and she speaks in wild triumph._

CLYTEMNESTRA.

Oh, lies enough and more have I this day
Spoken, which now I shame not to unsay. 
How should a woman work, to the utter end,
Hate on a damned hater, feigned a friend;
How pile perdition round him, hunter-wise,
Too high for overleaping, save by lies? 
To me this hour was dreamed of long ago;
A thing of ancient hate.  ’Twas very slow
In coming, but it came.  And here I stand
Even where I struck, with all the deed I planned
Done!  ’Twas so wrought—­what boots it to deny?—­
The man could neither guard himself nor fly. 
An endless web, as by some fisher strung,