Chloris.
Not sad, precisely; but anxious, feverish, a little excited.
Persephone.
Hark! the song begins again.
[They listen, and from far away the words come faintly back:
For the dead walk here in the grass at night.]
Maia.
The dead! Shall we see them?
Chloris.
Why not? These barbarians appear to avoid them with an invincible terror, but why should we do so?