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What is it to me if Pyrrhus is childless? He can avenge his children.
ALCIMEDON.
Peace is better.
MOLOSSUS.
[_Contemptuously._] Peace!
ORESTES.
And what is the road to peace? The hate must eat itself out, till it stays for weariness.
ALCIMEDON.
A long road, stranger, too long and too rough to the feet. We want peace _now_!
ORESTES.
How can you get peace now, when the blood is still wet? He may give all his silver and his kine, but he will hate the men whose blood he has drunk; and though they swear by all the G.o.ds of their valley, they will hate him. And hate will out, in time, one way or another.
MOLOSSUS.
If ever they swerve a hair's breadth from their oaths----
ALCIMEDON.
And is there to be no peace at all?
ORESTES.
Peace for this one--[_touching_ MOLOSSUS]--when Pyrrhus is childless, or when----
ALCIMEDON.
Your words on your own head!
ORESTES.
----when the last of the Napaeans has gone from the earth.
ANDROMACHE.
Nay; no peace then.
ORESTES.
Not for the dead?
ANDROMACHE.
Do not men see the dead roaming the world, and hear them call for blood?
ORESTES.
[_Excitedly._] How know _you_, woman, that the Dead call for blood?
[_Gloomily again._] When the whole of a race is gone there may perhaps be peace.
ANDROMACHE.
But the whole of a race is never gone. Even from Troy there are men escaped who may make cities and seek for vengeance again. And if you blot out all the Napaeans, there are those beyond the Napaeans who will hate you for that very thing. Make peace, swiftly, before you die, my son, lest there be no peace for ever and ever.
_Enter_ HERMIONE, _with_ PRIEST _of Thetis and Attendants; she is richly dressed, and her eyes bright and anxious. She pa.s.ses up to the two high seats, and takes one. She talks with her_ MAIDS, _and_ ALCIMEDON _goes over to her_.
ORESTES.
[_Detaching another pendant from his chain._] Woman, you can see men's hearts, and you talk not as these talk. Behold, there is no peace, for peace is nothing; there is either Love or Hate. [_Throwing pendant into the bowl._] If gold can buy love where hate is, put that to the blood-gift!
HERMIONE.
[_To_ ORESTES, _across the hall_.] Sir Stranger, this Priest tells me you are skilled as a bard.
ORESTES.
I have little skill in music, but I have journeyed much.
HERMIONE.
You can tell us strange tales of your voyages?
ORESTES.
Not of my own. But I was telling this boy a tale even now.
HERMIONE.
Nay, no boys' tales! Andromache, take your son and help with the ox flesh. [_To_ ORESTES.] And sit not so far off, among the slaves' seats.
Tell us some _man's_ story.
ORESTES.
[_Approaching, but bringing_ MOLOSSUS _with him, while_ ANDROMACHE _goes out_.] Nay, I will keep the boy. It is a boy's tale, this, and of little meaning. But seeing I have begun---- [_To_ MOLOSSUS.] Have you heard of a man that once had a great feud--Orestes, Agamemnon's son?
MOLOSSUS.
Who slew his mother, and was driven by----
PRIEST.
