The actress felt a chill at the roots of her hair. Her very soul vibrated. She became blind and prophetic. The cloud of Tragedy descended and hung over her head.
"What shall you say? You will call them. You will call both of them by name in that silence where the great royal spoils repose."
The actress felt the coursing of her blood; her voice was to resound through the silence of thousands of years, to revive the ancient suffering of men and heroes.
"You will take their hands; you will feel their two lives stretching toward each other."
The blindness of the immortal statues was in her eyes. She could see herself sculptured in the great silence, and feel the thrill of the mute throng, seized with awe at the sublime power of her attitude.
"And then? And then?"
The Inspirer rushed impetuously toward the actress, as if he wished to strike her in order to draw sparks from her.
"You must awake Cassandra from her sleep; you must feel her ashes revive in your hands; she must be present in your mental vision. Will you? Do you understand? Your living soul must touch her ancient soul, and blend into one soul and one grief, so that the flight of time seems annihilated. Cassandra is in you, and you are in her. Have you not loved her, and do you not love Priam's daughter also? Who that once shall hear it can ever forget, who can ever forget the deep notes of your voice and the convulsion of your lips at the first cry of fatalistic fury: 'O Earth! O Apollo!' I see you once more, deaf and dumb, on your chariot with the look of a wild beast just captured. But among so many terrible cries, some were infinitely sweet and sad. The old men compared you to the nightingale. What were the words you used when you spoke of your beautiful river? And when the old men questioned you about the love of the god—do you remember your answer?"
The Tragic Muse palpitated as if the breath of the god again invaded her. She had become ardent, ductile material, subject to all the inspirations of the poet.