To-day, it may be—it is the fifth day of the hunt; or perchance the game may keep him some time yet. [Enter Alcimedon, l., an old man with spears but no armour; he carries a bunch of violets for Thetis.] The witch woman is mad lest any hurt come to the boy!
Alcimedon.
Health to you, Priest, and discretion to your tongue!
Priest.
Health I accept, Alcimedon,—discretion to them that need it!
Orestes.
[To the Priest.] Why, what should bring hurt to the lad?
Alcimedon.
[Carelessly, passing on.] Jealousy stranger. Priests and barren women!
[He passes on to the altar, and then to the rock, where he puts his violets.