Iphigeneia.
Yea, a grave-token in my body's stead.
Orestes.
What myself saw, these will I name for proofs:
In our sire's halls was Pelops' ancient spear,
Swayed in his hands when Pisa's maid he won,
Hippodameia, and slew Oenomaus: 825
Hidden it was within thy maiden bower.
Iphigeneia.
Dearest!—nought else, for thou art passing dear!—
Orestes, best-beloved, I clasp thee now,
Far from thy fatherland, from Argos, here,
O love, art thou! 830
Orestes.
And thee I clasp—the dead, as all men thought!
Tears—that are no tears,—ecstasy blent with moan,[1]
Make happy mist in thine eyes as in mine.
Iphigeneia.
That day in the arms of thy nurse did I leave thee a babe, did I leave thee,
A little one—ah, such a little one then in our palace wast thou!
