Iphigenia. 
’Tis I. This altar’s spell is over me.

Orestes. 
A grievous office and unblest, O maid.

Iphigenia. 
What dare I do?  The law must be obeyed.

Orestes. 
A girl to hold a sword and stab men dead!

Iphigenia. 
I shall but sign the water on thy head.

Orestes. 
And who shall strike me, if I needs must ask?

Iphigenia. 
There be within these vaults who know their task.

Orestes. 
My grave, when they have finished their desire?

Iphigenia. 
A great gulf of the rock, and holy fire.

Orestes. 
Woe’s me! 
Would that my sister’s hand could close mine eyes!

Iphigenia. 
Alas, she dwelleth under distant skies,
Unhappy one, and vain is all thy prayer. 
Yet, Oh, them art from Argos:  all of care
That can be, I will give and fail thee not. 
Rich raiment to thy burial shall be brought,
And oil to cool thy pyre in golden floods,
And sweet that from a thousand mountain buds
The murmuring bee hath garnered, I will throw
To die with thee in fragrance. ... 
                                 I must go
And seek the tablet from the Goddess’ room
Within.—­Oh, do not hate me for my doom!

Watch them, ye servitors, but leave them free.

It may be, past all hoping, it may be,
My word shall sail to Argos, to his hand
Whom most I love.  How joyous will he stand
To know, past hope, that here on the world’s rim
His dead are living, and cry out for him!

[She goes into the Temple.]

Chorus. 
Alas, we pity thee; surely we pity thee:  [Strophe.]
  Who art given over to the holy water,
    The drops that fall deadly as drops of blood.

Orestes. 
I weep not, ye Greek maidens:  but farewell.

Chorus.

[Antistrophe.]

Aye, and rejoice with thee; surely rejoice with thee,
  Thou happy rover from the place of slaughter;
    Thy foot shall stand again where thy father’s
        stood.

Pylades. 
While he I love must die?  ’Tis miserable.

Divers women of the chorus. 
A. Alas, the deathward faring of the lost! 
B. Woe, woe; thou too shalt move to misery. 
C Which one shall suffer most? 
D. My heart is torn by two words evenly,
   For thee should I most sorrow, or for thee?

Orestes. 
By heaven, is thy thought, Pylades, like mine?

Pylades. 
O friend, I cannot speak.—­But what is thine?

Orestes. 
Who can the damsel be?  How Greek her tone
Of question, all of Ilion overthrown,
And how the kings came back, the wizard flame
Of Calchas, and Achilles’ mighty name,
And ill-starred Agamemnon.  With a keen
Pity she spoke, and asked me of his queen
And children ...  The strange woman comes from
    there
By race, an Argive maid.—­What aileth her
With tablets, else, and questionings as though
Her own heart beat with Argos’ joy or woe?