Leader.
What turns thee in that blind
Horror? Unless some loathing of the mind . . .
Cassandra.
Death drifting from the doors, and blood like rain!
Leader.
'Tis but the dumb beasts at the altar slain.
Cassandra.
And vapours from a charnel-house . . . See there!
Leader.
'Tis Tyrian incense clouding in the air.
Cassandra (recovering herself again).
So be it!—I will go, in yonder room
To weep mine own and Agamemnon's doom.
May death be all! Strangers, I am no bird
That pipeth trembling at a thicket stirred
By the empty wind. Bear witness on that day
When woman for this woman's life shall pay,
And man for man ill-mated low shall lie:
I ask this boon, as being about to die.
Leader.
Alas, I pity thee thy mystic fate!
Cassandra.
One word, one dirge-song would I utter yet
O'er mine own corpse. To this last shining Sun
I pray that, when the Avenger's work is done,
His enemies may remember this thing too,
This little thing, the woman slave they slew!
