Electra.
Thou knowest, when Orestes was cast out
I was a child. . . . If I did weave some clout
Of raiment, would he keep the vesture now
He wore in childhood? Should my weaving grow
As his limbs grew? . . . 'Tis lost long since. No more!
O, either 'twas some stranger passed, and shore
His locks for very ruth before that tomb:
Or, if he found perchance, to seek his home,
Some spy . . .
Old Man.
The strangers! Where are they? I fain
Would see them, aye, and bid them answer plain . . .
Electra.
Here at the door! How swift upon the thought!
Enter Orestes and Pylades.
Old Man.
High-born: albeit for that I trust them not.
The highest oft are false. . . . Howe'er it be,
[Approaching them.
I bid the strangers hail!
Orestes.
All hail to thee,
Greybeard!—Prithee, what man of all the King
Trusted of old, is now this broken thing?
Electra.
'Tis he that trained my father's boyhood.
