Andromache.
And who will be the happier? Listen. Can you hear that little beating sound—down seaward, away from the sun?
Molossus.
It is the water lapping against the rocks.
Andromache.
There is a sound like that in the language I told you of. Old, old men, and those whose gods have deserted them, hear it in their hearts—the sound of all the blood that men have spilt and the tears they have shed, lapping against great rocks, in shadow, away from the sun.
Molossus.
But, mother, no warrior hears any sound like that.
Andromache.