Electra.
It shames me; yet, God knows, I hunger sore—
Orestes.
What wouldst thou? Speak; the old fear nevermore
Need touch thee.
Electra.
To let loose upon the dead
My hate! Perchance to rouse on mine own head
The sleeping hate of the world?
Orestes.
No man that lives
Shall scathe thee by one word.
Electra.
Our city gives
Quick blame; and little love have men for me.
Orestes.
If aught thou hast unsaid, sister, be free
And speak. Between this man and us no bar
Cometh nor stint, but the utter rage of war.
[She goes and stands over the body. A moment's silence.
Electra.
Ah me, what have I? What first flood of hate
To loose upon thee? What last curse to sate
My pain, or river of wild words to flow
Bank-high between? . . . Nothing? . . . And yet I know
