Leader: Who cast it there? What man or zonèd maid?
Electra: Methinks that is a riddle quickly read!
Leader: Thy thought is swift; and may thine elder know?
Electra: What head save mine would blazon thus its woe?
Leader: She that should mourn him is his enemy.
Electra: Musing, to herself.
Strange bird, but of one feather to mine eye …
Leader: With what? Oh, speak. Make thy comparison.
Electra: Look; think ye not ’tis wondrous like mine own?
Leader: Thy brother’s! … Sent in secret! Can it be?
Electra: ’Tis like his long locks in my memory.
Leader: Orestes! Would he dare to walk this land?
Electra: Belike he sent it by another’s hand!
Leader: That calls for tears no less, if never more His footstep may be set on Argos shore.
Electra: At my heart also bitterer than gall A great wave beats. The iron hath passed thro’ all My being; and the stormy drops that rise Full unforbidden from these starvèd eyes, Gazing upon this hair. ’Tis past belief That any Argive tree hath shed this leaf. And sure she shore it not who wrought his death, My mother, godless, with no mother’s faith Or kindness for her child.—And yet to swear
Outright that this glad laugher is the hair Of my beloved Orestes. … Oh, I am weak With dreaming! Had it but a voice to speak Like some kind messenger, I had not been This phantom tossing in the wind between Two fancies. Either quick it would proclaim Its hate, if from some hater’s head it came; Or, if it were our own, with me ’twould shed Tears for this tomb and our great father dead …
Surely they know, these gods to whom we pray, Through what wild seas our vessel beats her way, And, if to save us is their will, may breed A mighty oak-trunk from a little seed … She goes back to the Tomb, searching.
Ah see, the print of feet, a second sign! The same feet: surely they are shaped like mine. Surely! Two separate trails of feet are there: He and perchance some fellow traveller. The heels; the mark of the long muscle thrown Athwart them on the sand—just like mine own In shape and measure. What? … Oh, all is vain; Torment of heart and blinding of the brain! She buries her face in her hands. Orestes rises from his hiding-place and stands before her.
Orestes: Thy prayer hath borne its fruit. Hereafter tell The gods thy thanks, and may the end be well!
Electra: What meanest thou? What hath God done for me?
Orestes: Shown thee a face which thou hast longed to see.
Electra: What face? What know’st thou of my secret heart?
Orestes: Orestes’. For that name all fire thou art.
Electra: If that be so, how am I near mine end?
Orestes: Here am I, Sister. Seek no closer friend.