Thy fate thou knowest, Queen: but I know notWhat lord of South or North has won my lot.
Talthybius.
Go, seek Cassandra, men! Make your best speed,That I may leave her with the King, and leadThese others to their divers lords. . . . Ha, there!What means that sudden light? Is it the flareOf torches?
[Light is seen shining through the crevices of the second hut on the right. He moves towards it.
Would they fire their prison rooms,Or how, these dames of Troy?—'Fore God, the doomsAre known, and now they burn themselves and dieRather than sail with us! How savagelyIn days like these a free neck chafes beneathIts burden! . . . Open! Open quick! Such deathWere bliss to them, it may be: but 'twill bringMuch wrath, and leave me shamed before the King!
Hecuba.
There is no fire, no peril: 'tis my child,Cassandra, by the breath of God made wild.
[The door opens from within andCassandraenters, white-robed and wreathed like a Priestess, a great torch in her hand.She is singing softly to herself and does not see the Herald or the scene before her.
Cassandra.
[Strophe.
Lift, lift it high:Give it to mine hand!Lo, I bear a flameUnto God! I praise his name.I light with a burning brandThis sanctuary.Blessèd is he that shall wed,And blessèd, blessèd am IIn Argos: a bride to lieWith a king in a king's bed.Hail, O Hymen red,O Torch that makest one!Weepest thou, Mother mine own?Surely thy cheek is paleWith tears, tears that wailFor a land and a father dead.But I go garlanded:I am the Bride of Desire:Therefore my torch is borne—Lo, the lifting of morn,Lo, the leaping of fire!—For thee, O Hymen bright,For thee, O Moon of the Deep,So Law hath charged, for the lightOf a maid's last sleep.
[Antistrophe.
Awake, O my feet, awake:Our father's hope is won!Dance as the dancing skiesOver him, where he liesHappy beneath the sun! . . .Lo, the Ring that I make . . .
[She makes a circle round her with the torch, and visions appear to her.
Apollo! . . . Ah, is it thou?O shrine in the laurels cold,I bear thee still, as of old,Mine incense! Be near to me now.
[She waves the torch as though bearing incense.
O Hymen, Hymen fleet:Quick torch that makest one! . . .How? Am I still alone?Laugh as I laugh, and twineIn the dance, O Mother mine:Dear feet, be near my feet!Come, greet ye Hymen, greetHymen with songs of pride:Sing to him loud and long,Cry, cry, when the songFaileth, for joy of the bride!O Damsels girt in the goldOf Ilion, cry, cry ye,For him that is doomed of oldTo be lord of me!
Leader.
O hold the damsel, lest her trancèd feetLift her afar, Queen, toward the Hellene fleet!
Hecuba.
O Fire, Fire, where men make marriagesSurely thou hast thy lot; but what are theseThou bringest flashing? Torches savage-wildAnd far from mine old dreams.—Alas, my child,How little dreamed I then of wars or redSpears of the Greek to lay thy bridal bed!Give me thy brand; it hath no holy blazeThus in thy frenzy flung. Nor all thy daysNor all thy griefs have changed them yet, nor learnedWisdom.—Ye women, bear the pine half burnedTo the chamber back; and let your drownèd eyesAnswer the music of these bridal cries!
[She takes the torch and gives it to one of the women.
Cassandra.
O Mother, fill mine hair with happy flowers,And speed me forth. Yea, if my spirit cowers,Drive me with wrath! So liveth Loxias,A bloodier bride than ever Helen wasGo I to Agamemnon, Lord most highOf Hellas! . . . I shall kill him, mother; IShall kill him, and lay waste his house with fireAs he laid ours. My brethren and my sireShall win again . . .(Checking herself) But part I must let be,And speak not. Not the axe that craveth me,And more than me; not the dark wanderingsOf mother-murder that my bridal brings,And all the House of Atreus down, down, down . .Nay, I will show thee. Even now this townIs happier than the Greeks. I know the powerOf God is on me: but this little hour,Wilt thou but listen, I will hold him back!One love, one woman's beauty, o'er the trackOf hunted Helen, made their myriads fall.And this their King so wise, who ruleth all,What wrought he? Cast out Love that Hate might feed:Gave to his brother his own child, his seedOf gladness, that a woman fled, and fainTo fly for ever, should be turned again!So the days waned, and armies on the shoreOf Simois stood and strove and died. Wherefore?No man had moved their landmarks; none had shookTheir wallèd towns.—And they whom Ares took,Had never seen their children: no wife cameWith gentle arms to shroud the limbs of themFor burial, in a strange and angry earthLaid dead. And there at home, the same long dearth:Women that lonely died, and aged menWaiting for sons that ne'er should turn again,Nor know their graves, nor pour drink-offerings,To still the unslakèd dust. These be the thingsThe conquering Greek hath won!But we—what pride,What praise of men were sweeter?—fighting diedTo save our people. And when war was redAround us, friends upbore the gentle deadHome, and dear women's hands about them woundWhite shrouds, and here they sleep in the old groundBelovèd. And the rest long days fought on,Dwelling with wives and children, not aloneAnd joyless, like these Greeks.And Hector's woe,What is it? He is gone, and all men knowHis glory, and how true a heart he bore.It is the gift the Greek hath brought! Of yoreMen saw him not, nor knew him. Yea, and evenParis hath loved withal a child of heaven:Else had his love but been as others are.Would ye be wise, ye Cities, fly from war!Yet if war come, there is a crown in deathFor her that striveth well and perishethUnstained: to die in evil were the stain!Therefore, O Mother, pity not thy slain,Nor Troy, nor me, the bride. Thy direst foeAnd mine by this my wooing is brought low.
Talthybius(at last breaking through the spell that has held him).
I swear, had not Apollo made thee mad,Not lightly hadst thou flung this shower of badBodings, to speed my General o'er the seas!'Fore God, the wisdoms and the greatnessesOf seeming, are they hollow all, as thingsOf naught? This son of Atreus, of all kingsMost mighty, hath so bowed him to the loveOf this mad maid, and chooseth her aboveAll women! By the Gods, rude though I be,I would not touch her hand!Look thou; I seeThy lips are blind, and whatso words they speak,Praises of Troy or shamings of the Greek,I cast to the four winds! Walk at my sideIn peace! . . . And heaven content him of his bride!
[He moves as though to go, but turns toHecuba,and speaks more gently.
And thou shalt follow to Odysseus' hostWhen the word comes. 'Tis a wise queen thou go'stTo serve, and gentle: so the Ithacans say.
Cassandra(seeing for the first time the Herald and all the scene).
How fierce a slave! . . . O Heralds, Heralds! Yea,Voices of Death; and mists are over themOf dead men's anguish, like a diadem,These weak abhorrèd things that serve the hateOf kings and peoples! . . .To Odysseus' gateMy mother goeth, say'st thou? Is God's wordAs naught, to me in silence ministered,That in this place she dies? . . . (To herself) No more; no more!Why should I speak the shame of them, beforeThey come? . . . Little he knows, that hard-besetSpirit, what deeps of woe await him yet;Till all these tears of ours and harrowingsOf Troy, by his, shall be as golden things.Ten years behind ten years athwart his wayWaiting: and home, lost and unfriended . . .Nay:Why should Odysseus' labours vex my breath?On; hasten; guide me to the house of Death,To lie beside my bridegroom! . . .Thou Greek King,Who deem'st thy fortune now so high a thing,Thou dust of the earth, a lowlier bed I see,In darkness, not in light, awaiting thee:And with thee, with thee . . . there, where yawneth plainA rift of the hills, raging with winter rain,Dead . . . and out-cast . . . and naked . . . It is IBeside my bridegroom: and the wild beasts cry,And ravin on God's chosen!
[She clasps her hands to her brow and feels the wreaths.
O, ye wreaths!Ye garlands of my God, whose love yet breathesAbout me; shapes of joyance mystical;Begone! I have forgot the festival,Forgot the joy. Begone! I tear ye, so,From off me! . . . Out on the swift winds they go.With flesh still clean I give them back to thee,Still white, O God, O light that leadest me![Turning upon the Herald.Where lies the galley? Whither shall I tread?See that your watch be set, your sail be spread.The wind comes quick! . . . Three Powers—mark me, thou!—There be in Hell, and one walks with thee now!Mother, farewell, and weep not! O my sweetCity, my earth-clad brethren, and thou greatSire that begat us; but a space, ye Dead,And I am with you: yea, with crownèd headI come, and shining from the fires that feedOn these that slay us now, and all their seed!
[She goes out, followed byTalthybiusand the Soldiers:Hecuba,after waiting for an instant motionless, falls to the ground.
Leader of Chorus.
The Queen, ye Watchers! See, she falls, she falls,Rigid without a word! O sorry thralls,Too late! And will ye leave her downstricken,A woman, and so old? Raise her again!
[Some women go toHecuba,but she refuses their aid and speaks without rising.
Hecuba.
Let lie . . . the love we seek not is no love . . .This ruined body! Is the fall thereofToo deep for all that now is over meOf anguish, and hath been, and yet shall be?Ye Gods . . . Alas! Why call on things so weakFor aid? Yet there is something that doth seek,Crying, for God, when one of us hath woe.O, I will think of things gone long agoAnd weave them to a song, like one more tearIn the heart of misery. . . . All kings we were;And I must wed a king. And sons I broughtMy lord King, many sons . . . nay, that were naught;But high strong princes, of all Troy the best.Hellas nor Troäs nor the garnered EastHeld such a mother! And all these things beneathThe Argive spear I saw cast down in death,And shore these tresses at the dead men's feet.Yea, and the gardener of my garden great,It was not any noise of him nor taleI wept for; these eyes saw him, when the paleWas broke, and there at the altar Priam fellMurdered, and round him all his citadelSacked. And my daughters, virgins of the fold,Meet to be brides of mighty kings, behold,'Twas for the Greek I bred them! All are gone;And no hope left, that I shall look uponTheir faces any more, nor they on mine.And now my feet tread on the utmost line:An old, old slave-woman, I pass belowMine enemies' gates; and whatso task they knowFor this age basest, shall be mine; the door,Bowing, to shut and open. . . . I that boreHector! . . . and meal to grind, and this racked headBend to the stones after a royal bed;Torn rags about me, aye, and under themTorn flesh; 'twill make a woman sick for shame!Woe's me; and all that one man's arms might holdOne woman, what long seas have o'er me rolledAnd roll for ever! . . . O my child, whose whiteSoul laughed amid the laughter of God's light,Cassandra, what hands and how strange a dayHave loosed thy zone! And thou, Polyxena,Where art thou? And my sons? Not any seedOf man nor woman now shall help my need.Why raise me any more? What hope have ITo hold me? Take this slave that once trod highIn Ilion; cast her on her bed of clayRock-pillowed, to lie down, and pass awayWasted with tears. And whatso man they callHappy, believe not ere the last day fall!
Chorus.
[Strophe.
O Muse, be near me now, and makeA strange song for Ilion's sake,Till a tone of tears be about mine earsAnd out of my lips a music breakFor Troy, Troy, and the end of the years:When the wheels of the Greek above me pressed,And the mighty horse-hoofs beat my breast;And all around were the Argive spears.A towering Steed of golden rein—O gold without, dark steel within!—Ramped in our gates; and all the plainLay silent where the Greeks had been.And a cry broke from all the folkGathered above on Ilion's rock:"Up, up, O fear is over now!To Pallas, who hath saved us living,To Pallas bear this victory-vow!"Then rose the old man from his room,The merry damsel left her loom,And each bound death about his browWith minstrelsy and high thanksgiving!
[Antistrophe.
O, swift were all in Troy that day,And girt them to the portal-way,Marvelling at that mountain ThingSmooth-carven, where the Argives lay,And wrath, and Ilion's vanquishing:Meet gift for her that spareth not,Heaven's yokeless Rider. Up they broughtThrough the steep gates her offering:Like some dark ship that climbs the shoreOn straining cables, up, where stoodHer marble throne, her hallowed floor,Who lusted for her people's blood.A very weariness of joyFell with the evening over Troy:And lutes of Afric mingled thereWith Phrygian songs: and many a maiden,With white feet glancing light as air,Made happy music through the gloom:And fires on many an inward roomAll night broad-flashing, flung their glareOn laughing eyes and slumber-laden.
A Maiden.
I was among the dancers thereTo Artemis, and glorying sangHer of the Hills, the Maid most fair,Daughter of Zeus: and, lo, there rangA shout out of the dark, and fellDeathlike from street to street, and madeA silence in the citadel:And a child cried, as if afraid,And hid him in his mother's veil.Then stalked the Slayer from his den,The hand of Pallas served her well!O blood, blood of Troy was deepAbout the streets and altars then:And in the wedded rooms of sleep,Lo, the desolate dark alone,And headless things, men stumbled on.And forth, lo, the women go,The crown of War, the crown of Woe,To bear the children of the foeAnd weep, weep, for Ilion!
[As the song ceases a chariot is seen approaching from the town, laden with spoils. On it sits a mourning Woman with a child in her arms.
Leader.
Lo, yonder on the heapèd crestOf a Greek wain, Andromachê,As one that o'er an unknown seaTosseth; and on her wave-borne breastHer loved one clingeth, Hector's child,Astyanax . . . O most forlornOf women, whither go'st thou, borne'Mid Hector's bronzen arms, and piledSpoils of the dead, and pageantryOf them that hunted Ilion down?Aye, richly thy new lord shall crownThe mountain shrines of Thessaly!
Andromache.
[Strophe1.
Forth to the Greek I go,Driven as a beast is driven.Hec.Woe, woe!And.Nay, mine is woe:Woe to none other given,And the song and the crown therefor!Hec.O Zeus!And.He hates thee sore!Hec.Children!And.No more, no moreTo aid thee: their strife is striven!
Hecuba.
[Antistrophe1.
Troy, Troy is gone!And.Yea, and her treasure parted.Hec.Gone, gone, mine ownChildren, the noble-hearted!And.Sing sorrow. . . .Hec.For me, for me!And.Sing for the Great City,That falleth, falleth to beA shadow, a fire departed.
Andromache.
[Strophe2.
Come to me, O my lover!Hec.The dark shroudeth him over,My flesh, woman, not thine, not thine!And.Make of thine arms my cover!
Hecuba.
[Antistrophe2.
O thou whose wound was deepest,Thou that my children keepest,Priam, Priam, O age-worn King,Gather me where thou sleepest.
Andromache(her hands upon her heart).
[Strophe3.
O here is the deep of desire,Hec.(How? And is this not woe?)And.For a city burned with fire;Hec.(It beateth, blow on blow.)And.God's wrath for Paris, thy son, that he died not long ago:Who sold for his evil loveTroy and the towers thereof:Therefore the dead men lieNaked, beneath the eyeOf Pallas, and vultures croakAnd flap for joy:So Love hath laid his yokeOn the neck of Troy!
Hecuba.
[Antistrophe3.
O mine own land, my home,And.(I weep for thee, left forlorn,)Hec.See'st thou what end is come?And.(And the house where my babes were born.)Hec.A desolate Mother we leave, O children, a City of scorn:Even as the sound of a songLeft by the way, but longRemembered, a tune of tearsFalling where no man hears,In the old house, as rain,For things loved of yore:But the dead hath lost his painAnd weeps no more.
Leader.
How sweet are tears to them in bitter stress,And sorrow, and all the songs of heaviness.
Andromache.
Mother of him of old, whose mighty spearSmote Greeks like chaff, see'st thou what things are here?
Hecuba.
I see God's hand, that buildeth a great crownFor littleness, and hath cast the mighty down.
Andromache.
I and my babe are driven among the drovesOf plundered cattle. O, when fortune movesSo swift, the high heart like a slave beats low.
Hecuba.
'Tis fearful to be helpless. Men but nowHave taken Cassandra, and I strove in vain.
Andromache.
Ah, woe is me; hath Ajax come again?But other evil yet is at thy gate.
Hecuba.
Nay, Daughter, beyond number, beyond weightMy evils are! Doom raceth against doom.
Andromache.
Polyxena across Achilles' tombLies slain, a gift flung to the dreamless dead.
Hecuba.
My sorrow! . . . 'Tis but what Talthybius said:So plain a riddle, and I read it not.
Andromache.
I saw her lie, and stayed this chariot;And raiment wrapt on her dead limbs, and beatMy breast for her.
Hecuba(to herself).
O the foul sin of it!The wickedness! My child. My child! AgainI cry to thee. How cruelly art thou slain!
Andromache.
She hath died her death, and howso dark it be,Her death is sweeter than my misery.
Hecuba.
Death cannot be what Life is, Child; the cupOf Death is empty, and Life hath always hope.
Andromache.
O Mother, having ears, hear thou this wordFear-conquering, till thy heart as mine be stirredWith joy. To die is only not to be;And better to be dead than grievouslyLiving. They have no pain, they ponder notTheir own wrong. But the living that is broughtFrom joy to heaviness, his soul doth roam,As in a desert, lost, from its old home.Thy daughter lieth now as one unborn,Dead, and naught knowing of the lust and scornThat slew her. And I . . . long since I drew my bowStraight at the heart of good fame; and I knowMy shaft hit; and for that am I the moreFallen from peace. All that men praise us for,I loved for Hector's sake, and sought to win.I knew that alway, be there hurt thereinOr utter innocence, to roam abroadHath ill report for women; so I trodDown the desire thereof, and walked my wayIn mine own garden. And light words and gayParley of women never passed my door.The thoughts of mine own heart . . . I craved no more . . .Spoke with me, and I was happy. ConstantlyI brought fair silence and a tranquil eyeFor Hector's greeting, and watched well the wayOf living, where to guide and where obey.And, lo! some rumour of this peace, being goneForth to the Greek, hath cursed me. Achilles' son,So soon as I was taken, for his thrallChose me. I shall do service in the hallOf them that slew . . . How? Shall I thrust asideHector's belovèd face, and open wideMy heart to this new lord? Oh, I should standA traitor to the dead! And if my handAnd flesh shrink from him . . . lo, wrath and despiteO'er all the house, and I a slave!One night,One night . . . aye, men have said it . . . maketh tameA woman in a man's arms. . . . O shame, shame!What woman's lips can so forswear her dead,And give strange kisses in another's bed?Why, not a dumb beast, not a colt will runIn the yoke untroubled, when her mate is gone—A thing not in God's image, dull, unmovedOf reason. O my Hector! best beloved,That, being mine, wast all in all to me,My prince, my wise one, O my majestyOf valiance! No man's touch had ever comeNear me, when thou from out my father's homeDidst lead me and make me thine. . . . And thou art dead,And I war-flung to slavery and the breadOf shame in Hellas, over bitter seas!What knoweth she of evils like to these,That dead Polyxena, thou weepest for?There liveth not in my life any moreThe hope that others have. Nor will I tellThe lie to mine own heart, that aught is wellOr shall be well. . . . Yet, O, to dream were sweet!
Leader.
Thy feet have trod the pathway of my feet,And thy clear sorrow teacheth me mine own.
Hecuba.
Lo, yonder ships: I ne'er set foot on one,But tales and pictures tell, when over themBreaketh a storm not all too strong to stem,Each man strives hard, the tiller gripped, the mastManned, the hull baled, to face it: till at lastToo strong breaks the o'erwhelming sea: lo, thenThey cease, and yield them up as broken menTo fate and the wild waters. Even soI in my many sorrows bear me low,Nor curse, nor strive that other things may be.The great wave rolled from God hath conquered me.But, O, let Hector and the fates that fellOn Hector, sleep. Weep for him ne'er so well,Thy weeping shall not wake him. Honour thouThe new lord that is set above thee now,And make of thine own gentle pietyA prize to lure his heart. So shalt thou beA strength to them that love us, and—God knows,It may be—rear this babe among his foes,My Hector's child, to manhood and great aidFor Ilion. So her stones may yet be laidOne on another, if God will, and wroughtAgain to a city! Ah, how thought to thoughtStill beckons! . . . But what minion of the GreekIs this that cometh, with new words to speak?
[EnterTalthybiuswith a band of Soldiers.He comes forward slowly and with evident disquiet.
Talthybius.
Spouse of the noblest heart that beat in Troy,Andromache, hate me not! 'Tis not in joyI tell thee. But the people and the KingsHave with one voice . . .
Andromache.
What is it? Evil thingsAre on thy lips!
Talthybius.
'Tis ordered, this child . . . Oh,How can I tell her of it?
Andromache.
Doth he not goWith me, to the same master?
Talthybius.
There is noneIn Greece, shall e'er be master of thy son.
Andromache.
How? Will they leave him here to build againThe wreck? . . .
Talthybius.
I know not how to tell thee plain!
Andromache.
Thou hast a gentle heart . . . if it be ill,And not good, news thou hidest!
Talthybius.
'Tis their willThy son shall die. . . . The whole vile thing is saidNow!
Andromache.
Oh, I could have borne mine enemy's bed!
Talthybius.
And speaking in the council of the hostOdysseus hath prevailed—
Andromache.
O lost! lost! lost! . . .Forgive me! It is not easy . . .
Talthybius.
. . . That the sonOf one so perilous be not fostered onTo manhood—
Andromache.
God; may his own counsel fallOn his own sons!
Talthybius.
. . . But from this crested wallOf Troy be dashed, and die. . . . Nay, let the thingBe done. Thou shalt be wiser so. Nor clingSo fiercely to him. Suffer as a braveWoman in bitter pain; nor think to haveStrength which thou hast not. Look about thee here!Canst thou see help, or refuge anywhere?Thy land is fallen and thy lord, and thouA prisoner and alone, one woman; howCanst battle against us? For thine own goodI would not have thee strive, nor make ill bloodAnd shame about thee. . . . Ah, nor move thy lipsIn silence there, to cast upon the shipsThy curse! One word of evil to the host,This babe shall have no burial, but be tossedNaked. . . . Ah, peace! And bear as best thou may,War's fortune. So thou shalt not go thy wayLeaving this child unburied; nor the GreekBe stern against thee, if thy heart be meek!
Andromache(to the child).
Go, die, my best-beloved, my cherished one,In fierce men's hands, leaving me here alone.Thy father was too valiant; that is whyThey slay thee! Other children, like to die,Might have been spared for that. But on thy headHis good is turned to evil.O thou bedAnd bridal; O the joining of the hand,That led me long ago to Hector's landTo bear, O not a lamb for Grecian swordsTo slaughter, but a Prince o'er all the hordesEnthroned of wide-flung Asia. . . . Weepest thou?Nay, why, my little one? Thou canst not know.And Father will not come; he will not come;Not once, the great spear flashing, and the tombRiven to set thee free! Not one of allHis brethren, nor the might of Ilion's wall.How shall it be? One horrible spring . . . deep, deepDown. And thy neck . . . Ah God, so cometh sleep! . . .And none to pity thee! . . . Thou little thingThat curlest in my arms, what sweet scents clingAll round thy neck! Belovèd; can it beAll nothing, that this bosom cradled theeAnd fostered; all the weary nights, wherethroughI watched upon thy sickness, till I grewWasted with watching? Kiss me. This one time;Not ever again. Put up thine arms, and climbAbout my neck: now, kiss me, lips to lips. . . .O, ye have found an anguish that outstripsAll tortures of the East, ye gentle Greeks!Why will ye slay this innocent, that seeksNo wrong? . . . O Helen, Helen, thou ill treeThat Tyndareus planted, who shall deem of theeAs child of Zeus? O, thou hast drawn thy breathFrom many fathers, Madness, Hate, red Death,And every rotting poison of the sky!Zeus knows thee not, thou vampire, draining dryGreece and the world! God hate thee and destroy,That with those beautiful eyes hast blasted Troy,And made the far-famed plains a waste withal.Quick! take him: drag him: cast him from the wall,If cast ye will! Tear him, ye beasts, be swift!God hath undone me, and I cannot liftOne hand, one hand, to save my child from death . . .O, hide my head for shame: fling me beneathYour galleys' benches! . . .
[She swoons: then half-rising.
Quick: I must begoneTo the bridal. . . . I have lost my child, my own!
[The soldiers close round her.
Leader.
O Troy ill-starred; for one strange woman, oneAbhorrèd kiss, how are thine hosts undone!
Talthybius(bending overAndromacheand gradually taking the Child from her).
Come, Child: let be that clasp of loveOutwearied! Walk thy ways with me,Up to the crested tower, aboveThy father's wall . . . where they decreeThy soul shall perish.—Hold him: hold!—Would God some other man might plyThese charges, one of duller mould,And nearer to the iron than I!
Hecuba.
O Child, they rob us of our own,Child of my Mighty One outworn:Ours, ours thou art!—Can aught be doneOf deeds, can aught of pain be borne,To aid thee?—Lo, this beaten head,This bleeding bosom! These I spreadAs gifts to thee. I can thus much.Woe, woe for Troy, and woe for thee!What fall yet lacketh, ere we touchThe last dead deep of misery?
[The Child, who has started back fromTalthybius,is taken up by one of the Soldiers and borne back towards the city, whileAndromacheis set again on the Chariot and driven off towards the ships.Talthybiusgoes with the Child.
Chorus.
[Strophe1