Enter Ajax, holding a blood-stained scourge in his hand.
Aj. Hail, Athena! Hail, Zeus-born maid! How well hast thou stood by me! Yea, I will crown thy shrine with trophies of pure gold for this prize!
Ath. 'Tis fairly spoken. But tell me this—hast thou dyed thy sword well in the Greek camp?
Aj. That vaunt is mine; I disclaim it not.
Ath. And perchance turned thine armed hand on the Atreidae?
Aj. So that nevermore will they dishonour Ajax.
Ath. The men are dead, as I take thy meaning:
Aj. Dead: now let them rob me of my arms! 100
Ath. Good: and then the son of Laertius—in what plight hast thou left him? Hath he escaped thee?
Aj. What, thou askest me of that accursed fox?
Ath. Yea, in sooth—of Odysseus, thine adversary.
Aj. No guest so welcome, Lady: he is sitting in the house—in bonds: I do not mean him to die just yet.
Ath. What wouldst thou do first? What larger advantage wouldst thou win?
Aj. First, he shall be bound to a pillar beneath my roof—
Ath. The hapless man—what despite wilt thou do unto him?
Aj. —and have his back crimsoned with the scourge, ere he die.110
Ath. Nay, do not torture the wretch so cruelly.
