The daughters. . .
Leader.
The daughters?
Agave.
Of Cadmus laid hand on him.
But the swift hand that slaughters
Is mine; mine is the praise!
Bless ye this day of days!
[The Leader tries to speak, but is not able; Agave begins gently stroking the head.
Agave.
Gather ye now to the feast!
Leader.
Feast!—O miserable!