Tal. The lot has decided your fates already, if that was what you feared.
Hec. Ah me! What city didst thou say, Thessalian, Phthian, or Cadmean?
Tal. Each warrior took his prize in turn; ye were not all at once assigned.
Hec. To whom hath the lot assigned us severally? Which of us Trojan dames doth a happy fortune await?
Tal. I know, but ask thy questions separately, not all at once.
Hec. Then tell me, whose prize is my daughter, hapless Cassandra?
Tal. King Agamemnon hath chosen her out for himself.
Hec. To be the slave-girl of his Spartan wife? Ah me!
Tal. Nay, to share with him his stealthy love.
Hec. What! Phœbus' virgin-priestess, to whom the god with golden locks granted the boon of maidenhood?
Tal. The dart of love hath pierced his heart, love for the frenzied maid.
Hec. Daughter, cast from thee the sacred keys, and from thy body tear the holy wreaths that drape thee in their folds.
Tal. Why! is it not an honour high that she should win our monarch's love?
Hec. What have ye done to her whom late ye took from me,—my child?
Tal. Dost mean Polyxena, or whom dost thou inquire about?
Hec. To whom hath the lot assigned her?
Tal. To minister at Achilles' tomb hath been appointed her.
Hec. Woe is me! I the mother of a dead man's slave! What custom, what ordinance is this amongst Hellenes, good sir?
Tal. Count thy daughter happy: 'tis well with her.
