sprinkling the stone pillars with blood as he gasped out his life. Then Heracles shouted in triumph and boasted loud: Here lies one of Eurystheus’ brood dead at my feet, atoning for his father’s hatred. Then he aimed his bow against a second, who had crouched at the altar’s foot thinking to escape unseen. But before he fired, the poor child threw himself at his father’s knees, and, flinging his hand to reach his beard or neck, cried: Oh! hear me, dearest father, do not kill me! I am your child, your own; it is no son of Eurystheus you will slay.But that other, with savage Gorgon-scowl, as the child now stood in range of his baleful archery, smote him on the head, as a smith strikes his molten iron, bringing down his club upon the fair-haired boy, and crushed the bones. The second caught, away he goes to add a third victim to the other two. But before he could, the poor mother caught up her child and carried him within the house and shut the doors. But he, as though he really were at the Cyclopean walls, prized open the doors with levers, and, hurling down their posts, with one shaft laid low his wife and child. Then in wild gallop he starts to slay his aged father; but there came a phantom, as it seemed to us on-lookers, of Pallas, with plumed helm, brandishing a spear; and she hurled a rock against the breast of Heracles, which held him from his frenzied thirst for blood and plunged him into sleep; to the ground he fell, striking his back against a column that had fallen on the floor shattered in two when the roof fell in. Then we rallied from our flight, and with the old man’s aid bound him fast with knotted cords to the pillar, so that on his awakening he might do no further mischief. So there he sleeps, poor wretch! a sleep that is not blessed, having murdered wife and children; no, for my part I do not know any mortal more miserable than he. Exit messenger.

ChorusThat murder wrought by the daughters of Danaus, which the rock of Argos keeps, was once the most famous and notorious in Hellas; but this has surpassed, has outrun those former horrors . . . for the unhappy son of Zeus.I could tell of the murder done by Procne, mother of an only child, offered to the Muses; but you had three children, wretched parent, and all of them have you in your frenzy slain.Alas! What groans or wails, what funeral dirge, or dance of death am I to raise?Ah, ah! see, the bolted doors of the lofty palace are being rolled apart.Ah me! see the wretched children lying before their unhappy father, who is sunk in dreadful slumber after shedding their blood.Round him are bonds and cords, made fast with many knots about the body of Heracles, and lashed to the stone columns of his house.

Chorus LeaderBut he, the aged father, like mother-bird wailing her unfledged brood, comes hastening here with halting steps on his bitter journey.The palace doors opening disclose Heracles lying asleep, bound to a shattered column.

AmphitryonSoftly, softly! you aged sons of Thebes, let him sleep on and forget his sorrows.

ChorusFor you, old friend, I weep and mourn, for the children too and that victorious chief.

AmphitryonStand further off, make no noise nor outcry, do not rouse him from his calm deep slumber.

ChorusO horrible! all this blood—

AmphitryonHush, hush! you will be my ruin.

ChorusThat he has spilled is rising up against him.

AmphitryonGently raise your dirge of woe, old friends; or he will wake, and, bursting his bonds, destroy the city, rend his father, and dash his house to pieces.

ChorusI cannot, cannot—

AmphitryonHush! let me note his breathing; come, let me put my ear close.