Then there
comes another, more plaintive--the moan of a strong man in the
death-throe.
We know that voice very well; we have heard it many times, calm and
regal, above the wrangle of councils and the roar of battle; often it
prayed for victory or for the people's weal, but it never yet called on
earth or heaven to help Agamemnon. The Chorus hear it too; but they
linger and palter, while each gives his grave sentence deliberately in
his proper turn. One or two advise action and interference, and stand
perfectly still. At last we hear a heavy, choking groan, and a great
stillness follows. We know that all is over--we know that there is a
stir already down there in Hades--we seem to catch a far-off murmur
raised by a thousand weak, tremulous voices--the very ghost of a
wail--as the shadows of those who died gallantly in their harness before
Troy gather to meet their old leader, the mightiest Atride.
In the background of all we fancy a hideous Eidolon, from whose side
even the damned recoil in loathing. There is a grin on the lips yet red
and wet with the traces of the unholy banquet. Thyestes exalts over the
fulfillment of another chapter in the inevitable curse.
Who has not grown savage over that scene? We hate the old drivelers less
when, a few minutes later, they truckle and temporize with the awful
shape, who comes forth with a splash of blood on her slender wrist, and
a speck or two on her white, lofty forehead.
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