ACT III

IPHIGENIA _and_ ORESTES.

IPHIGENIA: Unhappy man, I only loose thy bonds In token of a still severer doom. For the incensed king, should I refuse Compliance with the rites himself enjoin'd, Will choose another virgin from my train As my successor. Then, alas! with nought, pave ardent wishes, can I succour you. But tell me now, when Agamemnon fell, Orestes--did he share his sire's fate? Say, was he saved? And is he still alive? And lives Electra, too?

ORESTES: They both survive. Half of the horror only hast thou heard. Electra, on the day when fell her sire, Her brother from impending doom conceal'd; Him Strophius, his father's relative, Received with kindest care, and rear'd him up, With his own son, named Pylades, who soon Around the stranger twin'd love's fairest bonds. The longing to revenge the monarch's death Took them to Mycenæ, and by her son Was Clytemnestra slain.

IPHIGENIA: Immortal powers! O tell me of the poor unfortunate! Speak of Orestes!

ORESTES: Him the Furies chase. They glare around him with their hollow eyes, Like greedy eagles. In their murky dens They stir themselves, and from the corners creep Their comrades, dire remorse and pallid fear; Before them fumes a mist of Acheron. I am Orestes! and this guilty head Is stooping to the tomb and covets death; It will be welcome now in any shape.

[ORESTES _retires_. IPHIGENIA _prays to the gods, and_ ORESTES _returns_.

ORESTES: Who art thou, that thy voice thus horribly Can harrow up my bosom's inmost depths?

IPHIGENIA: Thine inmost heart reveals it. I am she--Iphigenia!

ORESTES: Hence, away, begone! Leave me! Like Heracles, a death of shame, Unworthy wretch, locked in myself, I'll die!

IPHIGENIA: Thou shalt not perish! Would that I might hear One quiet word from thee! Dispel my doubts, Make sure the bliss I have implored so long. Orestes! O my brother!

ORESTES: There's pity in thy look! oh, gaze not so-- 'Twas with such looks that Clytemnestra sought An entrance to her son Orestes' heart, And yet his uprais'd arm her bosom pierced. The weapon raise, spare not, this bosom rend, And make an outlet for its boiling streams.

[_He sinks exhausted. Enter_ PYLADES.

PYLADES: Dost thou not know me, and this sacred grove, And this blest light, which shines not on the dead? Attend! Each moment is of priceless worth, And our return hangs on a slender thread. The favouring gale, which swells our parting sail, Must to Olympus waft our perfect joy. Quick counsel and resolve the time demands.