Iphigenia. 
I give thee hail, husband of one so dear.

Orestes. 
My more than kinsman, saviour in my need!

Iphigenia. 
But mother ...  Speak:  how did ye dare that deed?

Orestes. 
Our father’s wrongs ...  But let that story be.

Iphigenia. 
And she to slay her king!  What cause had she?

Orestes. 
Forget her! ...  And no tale for thee it is.

Iphigenia. 
So be it.—­And thou art Lord of Argolis?

Orestes. 
Our uncle rules.  I walk an exile’s ways.

Iphigenia. 
Doth he so trample on our fallen days?

Orestes. 
Nay:  there be those that drive me, Shapes of Dread.

Iphigenia. 
Ah! 
That frenzy on the shore!  ’Tis as they said...

Orestes. 
They saw me in mine hour.  It needs must be.

Iphigenia. 
’Twas our dead mother’s Furies hounding thee!

Orestes. 
My mouth is bloody with the curb they ride.

Iphigenia. 
What brought thee here beyond the Friendless Tide?

Orestes. 
What leads me everywhere—­Apollo’s word.

Iphigenia. 
Seeking what end?—­Or may the tale be heard?

Orestes. 
Nay, I can tell thee all.  It needs must be
The whole tale of my days of misery. 
  When this sore evil that we speak not of
Lit on my hand, this way and that they drove
My body, till the God by diverse paths
Led me to Athens, that the nameless Wraths
Might bring me before judgment.  For that land
A pure tribunal hath, where Ares’ hand,
Red from an ancient stain, by Zeus was sent
For justice.  Thither came I; and there went
God’s hate before me, that at first no man
Would give me shelter.  Then some few began
To pity, and set out for me aloof
One table.  There I sate within their roof,
But without word they signed to me, as one
Apart, unspoken to, unlocked upon,
Lest touch of me should stain their meat and sup. 
And every man in measure filled his cup
And gave me mine, and took their joy apart,
While I sat silent; for I had no heart
To upbraid the hosts that fed me.  On I wrought
In my deep pain, feigning to mark them not.

And now, men say, mine evil days are made
A rite among them and the cups are laid
Apart for each.  The rule abideth still.

Howbeit, when I was come to Ares’ Hill
They gave me judgment.  On one stone I stood,
On one she that was eldest of the brood
That hunted me so long.  And many a word
Touching my mother’s death was spoke and heard,
Till Phoebus rose to save me.  Even lay
The votes of Death and Life; when, lo, a sway
Of Pallas’ arm, and free at last I stood
From that death grapple.  But the Shapes of Blood—­
Some did accept the judgment, and of grace