"That," he said, "is the workshop of Phidias. There he made the gold and ivory statue of Zeus that you shall see in Zeus's temple. That workshop will stay there many a year, I think, for people to love because so great a thing was done there." "Is it so wonderful?" asked Charmides. "When it was finished," Glaucon answered solemnly, "Phidias stood before it and prayed to Zeus to tell him whether it pleased the god. Great Zeus heard the prayer, and in his joy at the beautiful thing he hurled a blazing thunderbolt and smote the floor before the statue as if to say, 'This image is Zeus himself.' But I have never seen it, for a slave may not pass the sacred wall." Now the full moon had risen, and the world was swimming in silver light. The statue of Victory hung over the sacred place on spread wings. Many another great form on its high pillar seemed standing in the deep sky above the world. The little pool in the pebbly river had stars in the bottom. "This Kladeos is a savage little river in the spring," said Glaucon. "It tries to tear away our Olympia or drown it or cover it with sand. You see, men have had to fence it in with stone walls." But Charmides was looking at the sacred place and its soft shining statues in the sky. "Let us walk around the wall," he said. So they left the river and passed the gymnasium and the gate. Along this side the wall cast a wide shadow. Here they walked in silence. Here there were no tents, no torches, no noisy people. Everything was quiet in the evening air. The far-off sounds of the fair were a gentle hum. A hundred pictures were floating in Charmides' mind--Phidias, Zeus, Creon with the strigil, his own little Hermes, the strange people in the fair, the marble Apollo under the sculptor's tent. In a few moments they turned a corner and came out into the soft moonlight. A little beyond gleamed a broad river, the Alphaeus. Charmides and the slave went over and strolled along its banks. Here they were again in the crowd and among tents. They saw a group of people and went toward them. A man sat on a low knoll a little above the crowd. His hair hung about his shoulders and his long robe lay in glistening folds about his feet. A lyre rested on his knees, and he was striking the strings softly. The sweet notes floated high in the moonlit air. At last he lifted his voice and sang: When the swan spreadeth out his wings to alight On the whirling pools of the foaming stream, He sendeth to thee, Apollo, a note. When the sweet-voiced minstrel lifteth his lyre And stretcheth his hand on the singing string, He sendeth to thee, Apollo, a prayer. Even so do I now, a worshiping bard, With my heart lifted up to begin my lay, Cry aloud to Apollo, the lord of song.