And father put the blood on my hands himself.
Pyrrhus.
I will do more for you than that, my firstborn.
Hermione.
[Who has kept back, by the altar.] Take up your pitcher, and begone, woman!
Pyrrhus.
[Turning upon Hermione.] Now, by Peleus, daughter of Helen, what would you?
Hermione.
That when my slave is gone you may give me greeting.