No shapes at all were there.  ’Twas his sick mind
Which turned the herds that lowed and barking hounds
That followed, to some visionary sounds
Of Furies.  For ourselves, we did but sit
And watch in silence, wondering if the fit
Would leave him dead.  When suddenly out shone
His sword, and like a lion he leaped upon
Our herds, to fight his Furies!  Flank and side
He stabbed and smote them, till the foam was dyed
Red at the waves’ edge.  Marry, when we saw
The cattle hurt and falling, no more law
We gave, but sprang to arms and blew the horn
For help—­so strong they looked and nobly born
For thralls like us to meet, that pair unknown.

Well, a throng gathered ere much time was gone;
When suddenly the whirl of madness slips
From off him and he falls, quite weak, his lips
Dropping with foam.  When once we saw him fall
So timely, we were at him one and all
To pelt and smite.  The other watched us come,
But knelt and wiped those lips all dank with foam
And tended the sick body, while he held
His cloak’s good web above him for a shield;
So cool he was to ward off every stone
And all the while care for that stricken one.

Then rose the fallen man, calm now and grave,
Looked, and saw battle bursting like a wave
That bursts, and knew that peril close at hand
Which now is come, and groaned.  On every hand
We stood, and stoned and stoned, and ceased not.  Aye,
’Twas then we heard that fearful battle-cry: 
“Ho, Pylades, ’tis death!  But let it be
A gallant death!  Draw sword and follow me.”

When those two swords came flashing, up the glen
Through the loose rocks we scattered back; but when
One band was flying, down by rocks and trees
Came others pelting:  did they turn on these,
Back stole the first upon them, stone on stone. 
’Twas past belief:  of all those shots not one
Struck home.  The goddess kept her fated prey
Perfect.  Howbeit, at last we made our way
Right, left and round behind them on the sands,
And rushed, and beat the swords out of their hands,
So tired they scarce could stand.  Then to the king
We bore them both, and he, not tarrying,
Sends them to thee, to touch with holy spray—­
And then the blood-bowl!

I have heard thee pray,
Priestess, ere now for such a draft as this. 
Aye, slay but these two chiefs to Artemis
And Hellas shall have paid thy debt, and know
What blood was spilt in Aulis long ago.

Leader. 
I marvel that one mad, whoe’er he be,
Should sail from Hellas to the Friendless Sea.

Iphigenia. 
’Tis well.  Let thy hand bring them, and mine own
Shall falter not till here God’s will be done.

[Exit herdsman.]