Herdsman. 
A ship hath passed the blue Symplegades,
And here upon our coast two men are thrown,
Young, bold, good slaughter for the altar-stone
Of Artemis!

[She rises.]

Make all the speed ye may;
’Tis not too much.  The blood-bowl and the spray!

Iphigenia. 
Men of what nation?  Doth their habit show?

Herdsman. 
Hellenes for sure, but that is all we know.

Iphigenia. 
No name?  No other clue thine ear could seize?

Herdsman. 
We heard one call his comrade “Pylades.”

Iphigenia. 
Yes.  And the man who spoke—­his name was what?

Herdsman. 
None of us heard.  I think they spoke it not.

Iphigenia. 
How did ye see them first, how make them fast?

Herdsman. 
Down by the sea, just where the surge is cast ...

Iphigenia. 
The sea?  What is the sea to thee and thine?

Herdsman. 
We came to wash our cattle in the brine.

Iphigenia. 
Go back, and tell how they were taken; show
The fashion of it, for I fain would know
All.—­’Tis so long a time, and never yet,
Never, hath Greek blood made this altar wet.

Herdsman. 
We had brought our forest cattle where the seas
Break in long tides from the Symplegades. 
A bay is there, deep eaten by the surge
And hollowed clear, with cover by the verge
Where purple-fishers camp.  These twain were there
When one of mine own men, a forager,
Spied them, and tiptoed whispering back:  “God save
Us now!  Two things unearthly by the wave
Sitting!” We looked, and one of pious mood
Raised up his hands to heaven and praying stood: 
“Son of the white Sea Spirit, high in rule,
Storm-lord Palaemon, Oh, be merciful: 
Or sit ye there the warrior twins of Zeus,
Or something loved of Him, from whose great thews
Was-born the Nereids’ fifty-fluted choir.” 
  Another, flushed with folly and the fire
Of lawless daring, laughed aloud and swore
’Twas shipwrecked sailors skulking on the shore,
Our rule and custom here being known, to slay
All strangers.  And most thought this was the way
To follow, and seek out for Artemis
The blood-gift of our people.

Just at this
One of the strangers started from his seat,
And stood, and upward, downward, with a beat
His head went, and he groaned, and all his arm
Trembled.  Then, as a hunter gives alarm,
He shrieked, stark mad and raving:  “Pylades,
Dost see her there?—­And there—­Oh, no one sees!—­
A she-dragon of Hell, and all her head
Agape with fanged asps, to bite me dead. 
She hath no face, but somewhere from her cloak
Bloweth a wind of fire and bloody smoke: 
The wings’ beat fans it:  in her arms, Ah see! 
My mother, dead grey stone, to cast on me
And crush ...  Help, help!  They crowd on me
  behind ...”