Pylades. 
For thy sake and for mine ’tis fairer so. 
Now let me hear his name to whom I go
In Argolis, and how my words should run.

Iphigenia (repeating the words by heart). 
Say:  “To Orestes, Agamemnon’s son
She that was slain in Aulis, dead to Greece
Yet quick, Iphigenia sendeth peace:” 

Orestes. 
Iphigenia!  Where?  Back from the dead?

Iphigenia. 
’Tis I. But speak not, lest thou break my thread.—­
“Take me to Argos, brother, ere I die,
Back from the Friendless Peoples and the high
Altar of Her whose bloody rites I wreak.”

Orestes (aside). 
Where am I, Pylades?  How shall I speak?

Iphigenia. 
“Else one in grief forsaken shall, like shame,
Haunt thee.”

Pylades (aside). 
           Orestes!

Iphigenia (overhearing him). 
           Yes:  that is the name.

Pylades. 
Ye Gods above!

Iphigenia. 
              Why callest thou on God
For words of mine?

Pylades. 
                  ’Tis nothing.  ’Twas a road
My thoughts had turned.  Speak on.—­No need for us
To question; we shall hear things marvellous.

Iphigenia. 
Tell him that Artemis my soul did save,
I wot not how, and to the altar gave
A fawn instead; the which my father slew,
Not seeing, deeming that the sword he drew
Struck me.  But she had borne me far away
And left me in this land.—­I charge thee, say
So much.  It all is written on the scroll.

Pylades. 
An easy charge thou layest on my soul,
A glad oath on thine own.  I wait no more,
But here fulfil the service that I swore. 
  Orestes, take this tablet which I bear
To thine own hand, thy sister’s messenger.

Orestes. 
I take it, but I reck not of its scrip
Nor message.  Too much joy is at my lip. 
Sister!  Beloved!  Wildered though I be,
My arms believe not, yet they crave for thee. 
Now, filled with wonder, give me my delight!

[he goes to embrace her. she stands speechless.]

Leader. 
Stranger, forbear!  No living man hath right
To touch that robe.  The Goddess were defiled!

Orestes. 
O Sister mine, O my dead father’s child,
Agamemnon’s child; take me and have no fear,
Beyond all dreams ’tis I thy brother here.

Iphigenia. 
My brother?  Thou? ...  Peace!  Mock at me no more. 
Argos is bright with him and Nauplia’s shore.

Orestes. 
Unhappy one!  Thou hast no brother there.

Iphigenia. 
Orestes ... thou?  Whom Clytemnestra bare?

Orestes. 
To Atreus’ firstborn son, thy sire and mine.

Iphigenia. 
Thou sayst it:  Oh, give me some proof, some sign!