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Rh one thing that might justly provoke the queen is to be done. He leads forth Cassandra, and with kind considerate words recommends her to Clytemnestra's care.

The queen does not notice this request. She repeats her protestations that no profusion could be too great to welcome such a prince, or to express her joy; and then she joins exultingly in the procession which leads him in. And her parting words are these:—

The grand procession here enters the palace, and the stage is left vacant, except that Cassandra is still there, sitting silent in her chariot. But the notes of melancholy music call our eyes from the stage to the orchestra, where the Chorus is moving in mysterious figures about the altar, where it stands down beneath us on the floor of the theatre. Fear—resistless inexplicable fear—is now the burden of their song; so that, though their own eyes have seen the safe return of the