HKB
of a man in suppliant garb, bunch of olives and tufts of wool, his sword yet reeking with a recent murder; and sitting round about him yet more dreaded beings.
A troop {46} Of women strange to look at sleepeth there Before this wanderer, seated on their stools; Not women they, but Gorgons I must call them; Nor yet can I to Gorgon forms compare them; I have seen painted shapes that bear away The feast of Phineus. Wingless, though, are these, And swarth, and every way abominable. They snort with breath that none may dare approach, And from their eyes a loathsome humour pours, And such their garb as neither to the shrine Of Gods is meet to bring, nor mortal roof. Ne'er have I seen a race that owns this tribe, Nor is there land can boast it rears such brood, Unhurt and free from sorrow for its pains. Henceforth, be it the lot of Loxias, Our mighty lord, himself to deal with them: True prophet-healer he, and portent-seer, And for all others cleanser of their homes. {63}
At her word, in the entrance of the Inner Shrine appears Apollo with Hermes, and they lead Orestes out.
Apollo will never fail his suppliant; it is he who has sent sleep on these loathly Beings, born out of evils, with whom neither Gods nor men hold intercourse. They will still pursue, but he must fly to the ancient City of Pallas and clasp her statue; there 'judges of these things' and 'a means' will be found to rid him of his evils. Orestes expresses confidence in Apollo's justice, who reiterates his pledge in the name of Zeus and commits the wanderer to the charge of his own brother Hermes, the Escort-God, to take him safe to Athens. {93}
Apollo disappears into his shrine, and Hermes and Orestes leave by the Left side or Distance-door. The stage being thus left vacant, the machinery of the roller-stage brings the interior of the cave to the front, showing the sleeping Furies scattered over the floor. The Ghost of Clytaemnestra rises in front of the entrance to the Inner Shrine.
Clytaem. What ho! Sleep on! What need of sleepers now? And I am put by you to foul disgrace Among the other dead, nor fails reproach Among the shades that I a murderess am; And so in shame I wander, and I tell you That at their hands I bear worst forms of blame. And much as I have borne from nearest kin, {100} Yet not one god is stirred to wrath for me, Though done to death by matricidal hands. See ye these heart-wounds, whence and how they came? Yea, when it sleeps, the mind is bright with eyes; But in the day it is man's lot to lack All true discernment. Many a gift of mine Have ye lapped up, libations pure from wine, And soothing rites that shut out drunken mirth; And I dread banquets of the night would offer On altar-hearth, at hour no god might share. And lo! all this is trampled under foot. He is escaped, and flees, like fawn, away, And even from the midst of all your toils Has nimbly slipped, and draws wide mouth at you. Hear ye; for I have spoken for my life; Give heed, ye dark, earth-dwelling goddesses, I, Clytaemnestra's phantom, call on you. [The Erinnyes moan in their sleep.] Moan on, the man is gone, and flees far off; My kindred find protectors; I find none. [Moan as before.] Too sleep-oppressed art thou, nor pitiest me: Orestes, murderer of his mother, 'scapes. [Noises repeated.] Dost snort? Dost drowse? Wilt thou not rise and speed? What have ye ever done but work out ill? [Noises as before.] Yea, sleep and toil, supreme conspirators, Have withered up the dreaded dragon's strength.
Chorus of Furies, starting up suddenly with a yell.