ORESTES.
Our father's wrongs … But let that story be.
IPHIGENIA.
And she to slay her king! What cause had she?
ORESTES.
Forget her! … And no tale for thee it is.
IPHIGENIA.
So be it.—And thou art Lord of Argolis?
ORESTES.
Our uncle rules. I walk an exile's ways.
IPHIGENIA.
Doth he so trample on our fallen days?
ORESTES.
Nay: there be those that drive me, Shapes of Dread.
IPHIGENIA.
Ah!
That frenzy on the shore! 'Tis as they said…
ORESTES.
They saw me in mine hour. It needs must be.
IPHIGENIA.
'Twas our dead mother's Furies hounding thee!