My errand then is bootless, as it seems.

CLYTAEMNESTRA.

Bootless it is not, and it could not be,
If thou hast brought me certain evidence
That he is dead, who, owing life to me,
Rebelled against the breast that suckled him;
Who, when self-banished, he had left the land
Looked on my face no more; who, charging me
With his sire's murder, threatened vengeance dire,
So that sweet sleep neither by night nor day
Could fold my weary sense, but every hour
Passed in the shadow of impending death.
Now--since this day doth end my fears from him,
And from this maid, whose presence in my home,
Draining the very life-blood of my heart,
Was to me yet more baneful--now at last
Rid of their menaces, we dwell in peace.

ELECTRA.

Alas, alas! well may we wail for thee,
Orestes, when thy mother can exult
Over her child's poor ashes. Is this well?

CLYTAEMNESTRA.

Not well for thee, with him 'tis well enough.