ings of the Greek,
I cast to the four winds! Walk at my side
In peace!... And heaven content him of his bride!

[_He moves as though to go, but turns to_ HECUBA, _and speaks more
gently_.

And thou shalt follow to Odysseus' host
When the word comes. 'Tis a wise queen[24] thou
go'st
To 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[25]; and mists are over them
Of dead men's anguish, like a diadem,
These weak abhorred things that serve the hate
Of kings and peoples!...

To Odysseus' gate
My mother goeth, say'st thou? Is God's word
As naught, to me in silence ministered,
That in this place she dies?[26]... (_To herself_) No
more; no more!
Why should I speak the shame of them, before
They come?... Little he knows, that hard-beset
Spirit, what deeps of woe await him yet;
Till all these tears of ours and harrowings
Of Troy, by his, shall be as golden things.
Ten years behind ten years athwart his way
Waiting: 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
plain
A rift of the hills, raging with winter rain,
Dead ... and out-cast ... and naked.... It is I
Beside 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 breathes
About 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[27]! Three Powers--mark me,
thou!--
There be in Hell, and one walks with thee now!
Mother, farewell, and weep not! O my sweet
City, my earth-clad brethren, and thou great
Sire that begat us, but a space, ye Dead,
And I am with you, yea, with crowned head
I come, and shining from the fires th