By his soft locks I'll drag him with my hand:
There is no prayer, nor god, nor force of hell
Shall snatch thee from me. I will make thee plow
The dust with thy vile body to the tomb
Of Agamemnon,--I will drag thee thither
And pour out there all thine adulterous blood.

_El._ Orestes, dost thou not believe me?--me!

_Or._ Who'rt thou? I want Aegisthus.

_El._ He is fled.

_Or._ He's fled, and you, ye wretches, linger here?
But I will find him.

_Enter_ CLYTEMNESTRA.

_Cly._ Oh, have pity, son!

_Or._ Pity? Whose son am I? Atrides' son
Am I.

_Cly._ Aegisthus, loaded with chains--

_Or._ He lives yet?
O joy! Let me go slay him!

_Cly._ Nay, kill me!
I slew thy father--I alone. Aegisthus