"There is Protagoras!"
"The Sophist! I do not like him," said Aspasia. "He is a file who
frets all will away; his endless hair-splitting robs one of all
resolution."
"You speak truly and rationally, Aspasia, and in an earlier age you
would have sat upon the Pythoness's tripod and prophesied. Like the
priestess, you know not perhaps what you say, but a god speaks
through you."
"No, Socrates; I only utter your thoughts; that is all!"
Protagoras came forward. "Mourning in Athens! Mourning in Hellas!
Alas!" was his greeting.
"What is the matter, Protagoras?"
"Phidias of immortal memory lies dead in prison."
"Alas! then they have killed him."
"So it is rumoured in the city."
"Phidias is dead!"
"Probably poisoned, they say; but that need not be true."
"All die here in Athens before their proper time. When will our turn
come?"
"When it does."
"Are we falling by the arrows of the Python-slayer? We are shot like
birds."
"We are the children of Apollo. Would our father kill us?"
"Saturn has returned to devour his children."
Socrates sank in meditation, and remained standing.
"We have angered the gods."
Lucillus the Roman entered. "See the Roman!" said Socrates, "the
lord of the future and of the world. What has he to tell us?"
"I come to warn Protagoras.
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