ARJILLAX. Just so. Well, the Archangel Michael was of my opinion, not yours. He began by painting on the ceiling the newly born in all their childish beauty. But when he had done this he was not satisfied; for the temple was no more impressive than it had been before, except that there was a strength and promise of greater things about his newly born ones than any other artist had attained to. So he painted all round these newly born a company of ancients, who were in those days called prophets and sybils, whose majesty was that of the mind alone at its intensest. And this painting was acknowledged through ages and ages to be the summit and masterpiece of art. Of course we cannot believe such a tale literally. It is only a legend. We do not believe in archangels; and the notion that thirty thousand years ago sculpture and painting existed, and had even reached the glorious perfection they have reached with us, is absurd. But what men cannot realize they can at least aspire to. They please themselves by pretending that it was realized in a golden age of the past. This splendid legend endured because it lived as a desire in the hearts of the greatest artists. The temple of Mediterranea never was built in the past, nor did Michael the Archangel exist. But today the temple is here [_he points to the porch_]; and the man is here [_he slaps himself on the chest_]. I, Arjillax, am the man. I will place in your theatre such images of the newly born as must satisfy even Ecrasia's appetite for beauty; and I will surround them with ancients more august than any who walk through our woods. MARTELLUS [_as before_] Ha! ARJILLAX [_stung_] Why do you laugh, you who have come empty-handed, and, it seems, empty-headed? ECRASIA [_rising indignantly_] Oh, shame! You dare disparage Martellus, twenty times your master. ACIS. Be quiet, will you [_he seizes her shoulders and thrusts her back into her seat_]. MARTELLUS. Let him disparage his fill, Ecrasia. [_Sitting up_] My poor Arjillax, I too had this dream. I too found one day that my images of loveliness had become vapid, uninteresting, tedious, a waste of time and material. I too lost my desire to model limbs, and retained only my interest in heads and faces. I, too, made busts of ancients; but I had not your courage: I made them in secret, and hid them from you all. ARJILLAX [_jumping down from the altar behind Martellus in his surprise and excitement_] You made busts of ancients! Where are they, man? Will you be talked out of your inspiration by Ecrasia and the fools who imagine she speaks with authority? Let us have them all set up beside mine in the theatre. I have opened the way for you; and you see I am none the worse. MARTELLUS. Impossible. They are all smashed. [_He rises, laughing_]. ALL. Smashed! ARJILLAX. Who smashed them?