in Greek tragedy. We are kept in suspense by the mental conflict of Agamemnon till she enters with her mother and her little brother, and at once fascinates us by her affectionate forwardness to greet her father, whose special favourite she is. Young and fair, full of freshness and hope, she yet has the first tinge of womanliness in her expression, as she is conscious of her coming bridal, and that she must presently leave her delightful home. Thus she retires to the cover of the tents, while the meshes of Fate are gathering about her hopes. When she first hears her father's shameful deceit and her real destiny, her mother leaves her in wild despair—πολλὰς ἱεῖσα μεταβολὰς ὀδυρμάτων.[1] When she reappears to beg for her life she is calmer, but yet supplicates with an earnestness and a sympathy touching beyond expression, for she is no heartbroken captive like Polyxena, no persecuted exile like Macaria; she is still a young, fresh, hopeful creature, strange to the woes of life, and looking forward with bright expectations to its pleasures. Therefore she begs simply for life as such, without any thought of higher responsibilities; and when her craven father flies from her to avoid the agony of refusal, she forthwith bursts again into a lyrical paroxysm, the μεταβολαὶ ὀδυρμάτων.
But when a crowd approaches, and among them Achilles, she desires to fly in shame from her pretended bridegroom. Then follows the anxious dialogue of the hero with Clytemnestra, telling of the commotion in the host, and his own imminent danger in defending the maiden. When Iphigenia speaks after this brief pause, we feel that she has grown years older; all the careless freshness of her childhood is gone;[2] she sees herself the turning-point in a people's fortunes;
