OR.  Dost not perceive?

EL.  I cannot even imagine.

OR.  Know’st not into whose hands thou gav’st me once?

EL.  Whose hands?  How say you?

OR.  His, who through thy care
Conveyed me secretly to Phocis’ plain.

EL.  What! is this he, whom I, of all the band,
Found singly faithful in our father’s death?

OR.  He is that man.  No more!

EL.  O gladsome day! 
Dear only saviour of our father’s house,
How earnest thou hither?  Art thou he indeed,
That didst preserve Orestes and myself
From many sorrows?  O dear hands, kind feet,
Swift in our service,—­how couldst thou so long
Be near, nor show one gleam, but didst destroy
My heart with words, hiding the loveliest deeds? 
Father!—­in thee methinks I see my father. 
O welcome! thou of all the world to me
Most hated and most loved in one short hour.

OLD M. Enough, dear maiden!  Many nights and days
Are circling hitherward, that shall reveal
In clear recountment all that came between. 
  But to you two that stand beside I tell,
Now is your moment, with the Queen alone,
And none of men within; but if you pause,
Know that with others of profounder skill
You’ll have to strive, more than your present foes.

OR.  Then, Pylades, we need no more to dwell
On words, but enter on this act with speed,
First worshipping the holy shrines o’ the Gods
That were my father’s, harboured at the gate.
                              [They pass within.  ELECTRA remains in
                                                an attitude of prayer

EL.  O King Apollo! hear them graciously,
And hear me too, that with incessant hand
Honoured thee richly from my former store! 
And now, fierce slayer, I importune thee,
And woo thee with such gifts as I can give,
Be kindly aidant to this enterprise,
And make the world take note, what meed of bane
Heaven still bestows on man’s iniquity. [ELECTRA goes within

CH.  Lo, where the War-god moves 1
    With soft, sure footstep, on to his design,
    Breathing hot slaughter of an evil feud! 
    Even now the inevitable hounds that track
    Dark deeds of hideous crime
    Are gone beneath the covert of the domes. 
    Not long in wavering suspense shall hang
    The dreaming presage of my wistful soul.

    For lo! within is led 2
    With crafty tread the avenger of the shades,
    Even to his father’s throne of ancient power,
    And in his hand the bright new-sharpened death! 
    And Hermes, Maia’s son,
    Is leading him, and hath concealed the guile
    Even to the fatal end in clouds of night. 
    His time of weary waiting all is o’er.