[She goes into the Temple.]

Voice. 
Did some one cross the pathway?  Guard thee well.

Another voice. 
I am watching.  Every side I turn mine eye.

(Enter Orestes and Pylades.  Their dress shows fhey are travellers Orestes is shaken and distraught.)

Orestes. 
How, brother?  And is this the sanctuary
At last, for which we sailed from Argolis?

Pylades. 
For sure, Orestes.  Seest thou not it is?

Orestes. 
The altar, too, where Hellene blood is shed.

Pylades. 
How like long hair those blood-stains, tawny red!

Orestes. 
And spoils of slaughtered men—­there by the thatch.

Pylades. 
Aye, first-fruits of the harvest, when they catch
Their strangers!—­’Tis a place to search with care

[He searches, while Orestes sits.]

Orestes. 
O God, where hast thou brought me?  What new snare
Is this?—­I slew my mother; I avenged
My father at thy bidding; I have ranged
A homeless world, hunted by shapes of pain,
And circling trod in mine own steps again. 
At last I stood once more before thy throne
And cried thee question, what thing should be done
To end these miseries, wherein I reel
Through Hellas, mad, lashed like a burning wheel;
And thou didst bid me seek ... what land but this
Of Tauri, where thy sister Artemis
Her altar hath, and seize on that divine
Image which fell, men say, into this shrine
From heaven.  This I must seize by chance or plot
Or peril—­clearer word was uttered not—­
And bear to Attic earth.  If this be done,
I should have peace from all my malison.

Lo, I have done thy will.  I have pierced the seas
Where no Greek man may live.—­Ho, Pylades,
Sole sharer of my quest:  hast seen it all? 
What can we next?  Thou seest this circuit wall
Enormous?  Must we climb the public stair,
With all men watching?  Shall we seek somewhere
Some lock to pick, some secret bolt or bar—­
Of all which we know nothing?  Where we are,
If one man mark us, if they see us prize
The gate, or think of entrance anywise,
’Tis death.—­We still have time to fly for home: 
Back to the galley quick, ere worse things come!

Pylades. 
To fly we dare not, brother.  ’Twere a thing
Not of our custom; and ill work, to bring
God’s word to such reviling.—­Let us leave
The temple now, and gather in some cave
Where glooms the cool sea ripple.  But not where
The ship lies; men might chance to see her there
And tell some chief; then certain were our doom. 
But when the fringed eye of Night be come
Then we must dare, by all ways foul or fine,
To thieve that wondrous Image from its shrine. 
Ah, see; far up, between each pair of beams
A hollow one might creep through!  Danger gleams
Like sunshine to a brave man’s eyes, and fear
Of what may be is no help anywhere.