AGAMEMNON.

’Tis graceless when a woman strives to lead.

CLYTEMNESTRA.

When a great conqueror yields, ’tis grace indeed,

AGAMEMNON.

So in this war thou must my conqueror be?

CLYTEMNESTRA.

Yield!  With good will to yield is victory!

AGAMEMNON.

Well, if I needs must ...  Be it as thou hast said! 
  Quick!  Loose me these bound slaves on which I tread,
And while I walk yon wonders of the sea
God grant no eye of wrath be cast on me
From far!

  [The Attendants untie his shoes.

For even now it likes me not
To waste mine house, thus marring underfoot
The pride thereof, and wondrous broideries
Bought in far seas with silver.  But of these
Enough.—­And mark, I charge thee, this princess
Of Ilion; tend her with all gentleness. 
God’s eye doth see, and loveth from afar,
The merciful conqueror.  For no slave of war
Is slave by his own will.  She is the prize
And chosen flower of Ilion’s treasuries,
Set by the soldiers’ gift to follow me. 
  Now therefore, seeing I am constrained by thee
And do thy will, I walk in conqueror’s guise
Beneath my Gate, trampling sea-crimson dyes.

[As he dismounts and sets foot on the Tapestries CLYTEMNESTRA’S women utter again their Cry of Triumph.  The people bow or kneel as he passes.

CLYTEMNESTRA.

There is the sea—­its caverns who shall drain?—­
Breeding of many a purple-fish the stain
Surpassing silver, ever fresh renewed,
For robes of kings.  And we, by right indued,
Possess our fill thereof.  Thy house, O King,
Knoweth no stint, nor lack of anything. 
  What trampling of rich raiment, had the cry
So sounded in the domes of prophesy,
Would I have vowed these years, as price to pay
For this dear life in peril far away! 
Where the root is, the leafage cometh soon
To clothe an house, and spread its leafy boon
Against the burning star; and, thou being come,
Thou, on the midmost hearthstone of thy home,
Oh, warmth in winter leapeth to thy sign. 
And when God’s summer melteth into wine
The green grape, on that house shall coolness fall
Where the true man, the master, walks his hall.

Zeus, Zeus!  True Master, let my prayers be true! 
And, oh, forget not that thou art willed to do!

[She follows AGAMEMNON into the Palace.  The retinues of both King and Queen go in after them. CASSANDRA remains.

CHORUS.

  What is this that evermore, [Strophe 1.
  A cold terror at the door
Of this bosom presage-haunted,
  Pale as death hovereth? 
While a song unhired, unwanted,
By some inward prophet chanted,
  Speaks the secret at its core;
  And to cast it from my blood
  Like a dream not understood
  No sweet-spoken Courage now
  Sitteth at my heart’s dear prow.