with crowbars. The only action they can possibly perform is the sort that specially belongs to the Chorus, the action of baffled desire.
Medea is in the house; the Chorus is chanting its sublimated impersonal emotion about the Love that has turned to Hate in Medea, and its dread of things to come (1267 ff.):
For fierce are the smitings back of blood once shed
Where Love hath been: God's wrath upon them that kill,
And an anguished Earth, and the wonder of the dead
Haunting as music still. . . .
when a sudden cry is heard within. The song breaks short, and one woman speaks:
Hark! Did ye hear? Heard ye the children's cry?
Another.
O miserable woman! O abhorred!
Voice of a Child within.
What shall I do? What is it? Keep me fast
From Mother!
The Other Child.
I know nothing. Brother! Oh,
I think she means to kill us.
One of the Chorus.
Let me go!
I will!—Help, help! And save them at the last!
Child.
Yes, in God's name. Help quickly or we die!
The Other Child.
She has almost caught me now: she has a sword.
