nestra, and the excuse she will allege; and at last she tears the prophet-garlands from her head, and dashes down her wand in the dust, hating her unhappy task of uttering warnings that are fated to he disbelieved. Yet she will not die unavenged, for even now she sees the long-exiled son Orestes return, and claim satisfaction for his father's death.
Suddenly, while speaking for a moment more calmly to the Chorus, Cassandra starts back in horror. "Foh!" she cries,—
"Foh! how the house smells with the reek of blood!"
Fluttered like a bird with terror, she yet restrains herself to utter one last prayer for vengeance, one last reflection on the fickleness of fortune, and then goes into the palace to meet her death.
For a minute we are left to consider this wonderful scene of madness; to reflect on its strange medley of emotions, where Ophelia's tenderness and Lear's frenzy are gathered into one, and joined with the agony of foresight of Lochiel's Seer; while the Chorus moralises still over the danger of prosperity. Suddenly a cry is heard within,—
"Woe's me, I'm stabbed! stabbed with a mortal blow!"
Again and again it is repeated, as the majestic voice of Agamemnon, that so often rose above the din of battle, sounds fainter and fainter in the agony of death. The deed is done.
In the orchestra utter confusion prevails, for each member of the Chorus has some different advice to
