“Pardon me that my tears dry sooner than yours. The thought that _our_ son lives, gives me comfort.” “It comforts me also, but not so much.” “Shall I go, before your wife comes?” “You must not leave me, for I am ill.” “You have spoken of it for a long time now. Is it serious?” “My soul is sick. When the State suffers, I am ill.... There comes the mother of the dead.” A black-robed woman appeared in the doorway; she wore a veil in order to hide the fact that her hair was cut off; she had a garland in her hand, and a slave followed her with a torch. She did not immediately notice Aspasia’s presence, greeted her former husband with a glance, and laid the garland at the dead boy’s feet. “I only bring a funeral garland for my son,” she said, “but instead of the obol, he shall take a kiss from the lips of his mother.” She threw herself on the dead child, and kissed him. “Beware of the dead!” said Pericles, and seized her arm; “he died of the pestilence.” “My life has been a lingering death; a quick one is preferable to me.” Then she noticed Aspasia, and, rising, said with quiet dignity, “Tell your friend to go.” “She goes, and I follow her.” “That is right! For now, my Pericles, the last tie between us is dissolved! Farewell!” “Farewell, my wife!” And, turning to Aspasia, he said, “Give me your hand, my spouse.” “Here it is.” The mourning mother lingered: “We shall all meet again some day, shall we not? And then as friends--you, she, and he who is gone before to prepare a dwelling for the hearts which are separated by the narrow laws of life.” * * * * * Pericles and Socrates wandered in the avenue of plane-trees below the Hemicyklion, and conversed together. “Phidias has been acquitted of theft, but re-arrested on the charge of blaspheming the gods of the State.” “Arrested? Phidias!” “They say that he has represented me and himself in Athene’s shield.” “That is the mob’s doing, which hates all greatness! Anaxagoras banished because he was too wise; Aristides banished because he was too just; Themistocles, Pausanias.... What did you do, Pericles, when you gave the people power?” “What was lawful and right. I fall certainly by my own sword, but honourably. I go about and am dying piecemeal, like Athens. Did we know that we adorned our statues for a funeral procession? that we were weaving our own shrouds? that the choruses of our tragedies were dirges?” “Athens is dying--yes! But of what?” “Of Sparta.” “What is Sparta?” “Sparta is Heracles; the club, the lion-skin, brute-strength. We Athenians are the sons of Theseus, ranged against the Heraclidae, Dorians, and Ionians. Athens dies by Sparta’s hand, but Hellas dies by her own.” “I believe the gods have forsaken us.” “I believe so too, but the Divine lives.”