PRIEST.
Beware; he has spears! It is man to man.
[_Noise of footsteps._ ORESTES _puts his back towards a rock, so that neither he nor_ ALCIMEDON _sees_ ANDROMACHE, _the_ MAID, _and two other damsels, who enter with pitchers on their heads_.
ALCIMEDON.
[_With his eye on_ ORESTES.] Ha! who comes there? [_Calling to the newcomers without looking at them._] A stranger in arms, and with gold!
Ho! Myrmidons!
ANDROMACHE.
Shame on you, Alcimedon, robber of strangers!
ALCIMEDON.
Is it you? [_Yielding reluctantly._] Nay, he is no man's guest; it is lawful to slay him.
ANDROMACHE.
He is mine. [_To_ ORESTES.] Stranger, give me your right hand. [_To_ ALCIMEDON.] He is my guest.
ORESTES.
[_Still stormy and excited._] Shall I take a woman's hand for fear of this old loon? My spear-blade is dry and has not drunk.
PRIEST.
Stranger, you are alone; a wise man chooses peace, and not war.
ORESTES.
Alone? As a wolf among sheep is alone. When he slays first the dog--[_pointing spear at_ ALCIMEDON]--and bleeds the sheep as he will!
ANDROMACHE.
And who will be the better when he has bled them? Nay, old friend--[_to_ ALCIMEDON, _who wants to break in; then to_ ORESTES _again_]--though you slay us all, you have but lost the food and shelter we had given you; and the shedder of blood escapes not the Dread Watchers.
ORESTES.
[_Who had been cooling, starts and threatens her._] What know _you_ of the Dread Watchers?
ANDROMACHE.
And there is little glory in the slaying of a woman, and little gain.
ORESTES.
[_Wildly._] What woman? Who are you that taunt me? Priest, is this your witch?
ALCIMEDON.
[_Angrily._] She is no witch! You lie, both stranger and priest!
ANDROMACHE.
I am a bondwoman of the King.
ALCIMEDON.
Andromache, once wife of Hector, Prince of Troy.
ORESTES.
And am I to be the guest of a bondwoman?
ANDROMACHE.
There are others of free estate who will take you in. I only sought to save men's lives.
ORESTES.
What worth are men's lives? I will be guest to none but the King.
ANDROMACHE.
One of these will guide you, when you will, to Pyrrhus' castle.
ORESTES.
[_Relaxing suddenly._] Oh, let me be.
[_He sits down on a rock, and buries his face in his hands._
ANDROMACHE.
[_To_ ALCIMEDON.] The man is very weary and sore at heart, Alcimedon.
PRIEST.
It may be he is mad. It is well we hurt him not.
ALCIMEDON.
Banishment may make a man well-nigh mad. I remember the year of my own manslaying.
ANDROMACHE.