CLYTEMNESTRA.

Aye, child; I know thy heart, from long ago.
Thou hast alway loved him best. 'Tis oft-time so:
One is her father's daughter, and one hot
To bear her mother's part. I blame thee not....
Yet think not I am happy, child; nor flown
With pride now, in the deeds my hand hath done....
[_Seeing_ ELECTRA _unsympathetic, she checks herself_.
But thou art all untended, comfortless
Of body and wild of raiment; and thy stress
Of travail scarce yet ended!... Woe is me!
'Tis all as I have willed it. Bitterly
I wrought against him, to the last blind deep
Of bitterness.... Woe's me!

ELECTRA.

Fair days to weep,
When help is not! Or stay: though he lie cold
Long since, there lives another of thy fold
Far off; there might be pity for thy son?

CLYTEMNESTRA.

I dare not!... Yes, I fear him. 'Tis mine own
Life, and not his, comes first. And rumour saith
His heart yet burneth for his father's death.

ELECTRA.