approach,
And from their eyes a loathsome humour pours,
And such their garb as neither to the shrine
Of Gods is meet to bring, nor mortal roof.
Ne'er have I seen a race that owns this tribe,
Nor is there land can boast it rears such brood,
Unhurt and free from sorrow for its pains.
Henceforth, be it the lot of Loxias,
Our mighty lord, himself to deal with them:
True prophet-healer he, and portent-seer,
And for all others cleanser of their homes. {63}

_At her word, in the entrance of the Inner Shrine appears Apollo with
Hermes, and they lead Orestes out._

_Apollo_ will never fail his suppliant; it is he who has sent sleep on
these loathly Beings, born out of evils, with whom neither Gods nor men
hold intercourse. They will still pursue, but he must fly to the
ancient City of Pallas and clasp her statue; there 'judges of these
things' and 'a means' will be found to rid him of his evils. _Orestes_
expresses confidence in Apollo's justice, who reiterates his pledge in
the name of Zeus and commits the wanderer to the charge of his own
brother Hermes, the Escort-God, to take him safe to Athens. {93}

_Apollo disappears into his shrine, and Hermes and Orestes leave by the
Left side or Distance-door. The stage being thus left vacant, the
machinery of the roller-stage brings the interior of the cave to the
front, showing the sleeping Furies scattered over the floor. The Ghost
of Clytaemnestra rises in front of the entrance to the Inner Shrine._

_Clytaem._ What ho! Sleep on! What need of sleepers now?
And I am put by you to foul disgrace
Among the other dead, nor fails reproach
Among the shades that I a murderess am;
And so in shame I wander, and I tell you
That at their hands I bear worst forms of blame.
And much as I have borne from nearest kin, {100}
Yet not one god is stirred to wrath for me,
Though done to death by matricidal hands.
See ye these heart-wounds, whence and how they came?
Yea, when it sleeps, the mind is bright with eyes;
But in the day it is man's lot to lack
All true discernment. Many a gift of mine
Have ye lapped up, libations pure from wine,
And soothing rites that shut out drunken mirth;