Chor. Keen scented seems this stranger, like a hound,
And sniffs to see whose murder she may find.
Antistrophe III
Cass. Ah! Ah! Ah me!
Lo! [looking wildly, and pointing to the house,] there the witnesses whose word I trust,—
Those babes who wail their death,
The roasted flesh that made a father's meal.
Chor. We of a truth had heard thy seeress fame,
But prophets now are not the race we seek.[[355]]
Strophe IV