Chorus.
’Tis the fresh-gouted blood
Upon thy hand, that breeds thy brain’s distraction.
Orestes.
Ha! how they swarm! Apollo! more—yet more!
And from their fell eyes droppeth murderous gore.
Chorus.
There is atonement.[n74] Touch but Loxias’ altar,
And he from bloody stain shall wash thee clean.
Orestes.