Leader.
But stay, Agâvê cometh! And her eyes
Make fire around her, reeling! Ho, the prize
Cometh! All hail, O Rout of Dionyse!
[Enter from the Mountain Agave, mad, and to all seeming wondrously happy, bearing the head of Pentheus in her hand. The Chorus Maidens stand horror-struck at the sight; the Leader, also horror-struck, strives to accept it and rejoice in it as the God's deed.
Agave.
Ye from the lands of Morn!
Leader.
Call me not; I give praise!
Agave.
Lo, from the trunk new-shorn
Hither a Mountain Thorn
Bear we! O Asia-born
Bacchanals, bless this chase!