Or beat backward in the sky,
    For the wrongs of man, the cry
  Of his ailing tribes assembled,
    To do justly, ere they die! 
  Once, men told the tale, and trembled;

    Fearing God, O Queen:  whom thou
    Hast forgotten, till thy brow
  With old blood is dark and daunted. 
    And thy brethren, even now,
  Walk among the stars, enchanted.

LEADER.

Ha, friends, was that a voice?  Or some dream sound
Of voices shaketh me, as underground
God’s thunder shuddering?  Hark, again, and clear! 
It swells upon the wind.—­Come forth and hear! 
Mistress, Electra!

ELECTRA, a bare sword in her hand, comes from the house.

ELECTRA.

Friends!  Some news is brought? 
How hath the battle ended?

LEADER.

I know naught. 
There seemed a cry as of men massacred!

ELECTRA.

I heard it too.  Far off, but still I heard.

LEADER.

A distant floating voice ...  Ah, plainer now!

ELECTRA.

Of Argive anguish!—­Brother, is it thou?

LEADER.

I know not.  Many confused voices cry...

ELECTRA.

Death, then for me!  That answer bids me die.

LEADER.

Nay, wait!  We know not yet thy fortune.  Wait!

ELECTRA.

No messenger from him!—­Too late, too late!

LEADER.

The message yet will come.  ’Tis not a thing
So light of compass, to strike down a king.

  Enter a MESSENGER, running.

MESSENGER.

Victory, Maids of Argos, Victory! 
Orestes ... all that love him, list to me!... 
Hath conquered!  Agamemnon’s murderer lies
Dead!  O give thanks to God with happy cries!

ELECTRA.

Who art thou?  I mistrust thee....  ’Tis a plot!

MESSENGER.

Thy brother’s man.  Look well.  Dost know me not?

ELECTRA.

Friend, friend; my terror made me not to see
Thy visage.  Now I know and welcome thee. 
How sayst thou?  He is dead, verily dead,
My father’s murderer...?

MESSENGER.

Shall it be said
Once more?  I know again and yet again
Thy heart would hear.  Aegisthus lieth slain!

ELECTRA.

Ye Gods!  And thou, O Right, that seest all,
Art come at last?...  But speak; how did he fall? 
How swooped the wing of death?...  I crave to hear.

MESSENGER.

Forth of this hut we set our faces clear
To the world, and struck the open chariot road;
Then on toward the pasture lands, where stood
The great Lord of Mycenae.  In a set
Garden beside a channelled rivulet,
Culling a myrtle garland for his brow,
He walked:  but hailed us as we passed:  “How now,
Strangers!  Who are ye?  Of what city sprung,
And whither bound?” “Thessalians,”