About it: and a tress of bright brown hair
Shorn as in mourning, close. Long stood I there
And wondered, of all men what man had gone
In mourning to that grave.--My child, 'tis none
In Argos. Did there come ... Nay, mark me now...
Thy brother in the dark, last night, to bow
His head before that unadorèd tomb?
O come, and mark the colour of it. Come
And lay thine own hair by that mourner's tress!
A hundred little things make likenesses
In brethren born, and show the father's blood.

ELECTRA (_trying to mask her excitement and resist the contagion of his_).

Old heart, old heart, is this a wise man's mood?...
O, not in darkness, not in fear of men,
Shall Argos find him, when he comes again,
Mine own undaunted ... Nay, and if it were,
What likeness could there be? My brother's hair
Is as a prince's and a rover's, strong
With sunlight and with strife: not like the long
Locks that a woman combs.... And many a head
Hath this same semblance, wing for wing, tho' bred
Of blood not ours.... 'Tis hopeless. Peace, old man.

OLD MAN.

The footprints! Set thy foot by his, and scan
The track of frame and muscles, how they fit!