Iphigenia. 
So be it. 
My foremost care must be that nothing harms
The temple’s holy rule.—­Untie their arms. 
That which is hallowed may no more be bound. 
You, to the shrine within!  Let all be found
As the law bids, and as we need this day.

[Orestes and Pylades are set free; some attendants go into the temple.]

Ah me! 
What mother then was yours, O strangers, say,
And father?  And your sister, if you have
A sister:  both at once, so young and brave
To leave her brotherless!  Who knows when heaven
May send that fortune?  For to none is given
To know the coming nor the end of woe;
So dark is God, and to great darkness go
His paths, by blind chance mazed from our ken. 
  Whence are ye come, O most unhappy men? 
From some far home, methinks, ye have found this shore
And far shall stay from home for evermore.

Orestes. 
Why weepest thou, woman, to make worse the smart
Of that which needs must be, whoe’er thou art? 
I count it not for gentleness, when one
Who means to slay, seeks first to make undone
By pity that sharp dread.  Nor praise I him,
With hope long dead, who sheddeth tears to dim
The pain that grips him close.  The evil so
Is doubled into twain.  He doth but show
His feeble heart, and, as he must have died,
Dies.—­Let ill fortune float upon her tide
And weep no more for us.  What way this land
Worships its god we know and understand.

Iphigenia. 
Say first ... which is it men call Pylades?

Orestes. 
’Tis this man’s name, if that will give thee ease.

Iphigenia. 
From what walled town of Hellas cometh he?

Orestes. 
Enough!—­How would the knowledge profit thee?

Iphigenia. 
Are ye two brethren of one mother born?

Orestes. 
No, not in blood.  In love we are brothers sworn.

Iphigenia. 
Thou also hast a name:  tell me thereof.

Orestes. 
Call me Unfortunate.  ’Tis name enough.

Iphigenia. 
I asked not that.  Let that with Fortune lie.

Orestes. 
Fools cannot laugh at them that nameless die.

Iphigenia. 
Why grudge me this?  Hast thou such mighty fame?

Orestes. 
My body, if thou wilt, but not my name.

Iphigenia. 
Nor yet the land of Greece where thou wast bred?

Orestes. 
What gain to have told it thee, when I am dead?

Iphigenia. 
Nay:  why shouldst thou deny so small a grace?

Orestes. 
Know then, great Argos was my native place.

Iphigenia. 
Stranger!  The truth! ...  From Argos art thou come?

Orestes. 
Mycenae, once a rich land, was my home.

Iphigenia. 
’Tis banishment that brings thee here—­or what?