Molossus.
A little, it may be. Not more than when I struck my first deer. A child might cry over the ox they are flaying now in the yard.
Andromache.
And a grown man, too, if it availed anything.
Molossus.
Mother, you are but a woman, and I am getting to be a man; I must grow past all that and throw it behind me.
Enter Orestes unnoticed: he stands in the doorway, leaning against a pillar.
Andromache.
May your eyes never see half the pain mine have seen! I grew past feeling for it, too, long, long ago. I saw men writhe and bite the dust, without caring for them or counting them. They were so many that they were all confused, and the noise of their anguish was like the crying of cranes far off; there was no one voice in it, and no meaning. And then, as it went on growing, and the sons of Priam died about me and the folk starved, and my husband, Hector, was slain with torment, all the voices gathered again together and seemed as one voice, that cried to my heart so that it understood.