In the short interval which follows, the Chorus sing aptly and beautifully of the daring and skill of man. But their ode soon breaks into excited exclamations. They see the watchman who but lately left them returning hurriedly and leading a woman by the hand. At the same moment Creon enters.

Chorus. What portent from the gods is here?
My mind is mazed with doubt and fear.
How can I gainsay what I see?
I know the girl Antigone.
O hapless child of hapless sire!
Didst thou, then, recklessly aspire
To brave kings’ laws, and now art brought
In madness of transgression caught?[[24]]

Her captor is exultant, for he has disproved the charge against himself. Not that it gives him pleasure to betray the kind young princess; but everybody’s life is precious to himself, he says, not seeing one gleam of the splendid scorn of life in the girl who is standing beside him. This maid is undoubtedly the transgressor, for they caught her in the act. Now let the king acquit him of the false accusation, and set him free. Before the man may go, however, Creon turns to Antigone. She stands pale and silent, her eyes lowered before the incredulous gaze of all these hostile men. Does she confirm the amazing statement they have just heard? he asks. It is quite true, she answers; she owns to the deed. Then Creon, having dismissed the watchman, demands to be told why she has dared to disobey his edict. Antigone’s reply, with all its spiritual power and beauty, is also touchingly human. Creon has asked whether she was aware of the decree and the penalty.

Ant. I could not fail to know. You made it plain.

Creon. How durst thou then transgress the published law?

Ant. I heard it not from Heaven, nor came it forth
From Justice, where she reigns with Gods below.
They too have published to mankind a law.
Nor thought I thy commandment of such might
That one who is mortal thus could overbear
The infallible, unwritten laws of Heaven.
Not now or yesterday they have their being,
But everlastingly, and none can tell
The hour that saw their birth. I would not, I,
For any terrors of a man’s resolve,
Incur the God-inflicted penalty
Of doing them wrong. That death would come—I knew
Without thine edict:—if before the time,
I count it gain. Who does not gain by death,
That lives, as I do, amid boundless woe?
Slight is the sorrow of such doom to me.
But had I suffered my own mother’s child,
Fallen in blood, to be without a grave,
That were indeed a sorrow. This is none.[[24]]

Up to this point her ardent vision and courage have carried her on, soaring high into the light of eternal truth, or tenderly stooping to the sanction of dear human ties. The austerity of the stern faces by which she is surrounded has had no power to quell her fervent spirit; and it is only when she catches Creon’s look of contempt that a bitter reality forces itself upon her. This passion of self-sacrifice, this duty which comes to her as a mandate from the gods themselves, is stark nonsense in the eyes of the man who confronts her. The thought gives a sudden pause to her ardour, and there is a quick revulsion to anger. O these blind eyes that will not see! And this stupidity that refuses to be enlightened! She drops to a lower range, and ends abruptly on a taunt at Creon’s dullness of perception:

“And if thou deem’st me foolish for my deed,

I am foolish in the judgment of a fool.“[[24]]

The Chorus has relapsed into submission to Creon. No spark of fire from Antigone’s burning words can warm their coldness. Yet their frigid comment is significant. How like she is, in her strong will, to Œdipus, her sire. Creon takes up their words. Yes, she is stubborn, but the hardest metal will soonest break. Not content with disobedience, she must glory in her deed. But she shall surely die for it; and Ismene, too, if she has been an accomplice.