Amph. —Sits suppliant on the holy altar-steps,—
Luk. Idly indeed a suppliant to save life!
Amph. —And calls on her dead husband, vainly too!
Luk. For he's not come, nor ever will arrive.
Amph. Never—at least, if no god raise him up.
Luk. Go to her, and conduct her from the house!
Amph. I should partake the murder, doing that.
Luk. We,—since thou hast a scruple in the case,—
Outside of fears, we shall march forth these lads,
Mother and all. Here, follow me, my folk—