"
"And Alcibiades is of the race of heroes, the Alcmaeonidae, like his
uncle Pericles; a noble company."
"But Phidias is of the race of the gods; that is more."
"I am probably descended from the Titans," broke in Protagoras. "I
say 'probably,' for one knows nothing at all, and hardly that. Don't
you think so, Socrates?"
"_You_ know nothing at all, and least of all what you talk about."
The company passed through the Sacred Street, and went together to
the theatre of Dionysus, near which Alcibiades lived.
* * * * *
The demagogue Cleon had really been lurking out of sight, and
listening to the conversation. And so had another man with a yellow
complexion and a full black beard, who seemed to belong to the
artisan class. When the brilliant company had departed, Cleon
stepped forward, laid his hand on the stranger's shoulder, and said:
"You have heard their conversation?"
"Certainly I have," he answered.
"Then you can give evidence."
"I cannot give evidence, because I am a foreigner."
"Still you have heard how they spoke against the gods of the State."
"I am a Syrian, and only know one true God. Your gods are not mine."
"You are a Hebrew, then! What is your name?"
"I am an Israelite, of the family of Levi, and call myself now
Cartophilus.
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