“Yes--and no! I have my own ‘demon,’ as you know, who warns but never urges--who advises, but never commands. This inner Voice has said to me, ‘Hellas will not conquer the world.’” “Will Rome do it?” “Yes, but for another!” “You know that Pericles’ great thought was a single Hellas--a union of all the Grecian States.” “That was Pericles’ wish, but the will of the gods was otherwise. Alcibiades’ dream of Hellas governing the world is also great, but the dreams of the gods are greater.” “What gain do you think comes to Athens from Cleon’s death?” “None! After Cleon comes Anytos. Cleon is everlasting, for Cleon is the name of an idea.” Protagoras, grown old and somewhat dull, appeared in the inner courtyard. “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. He is to be banished.” “I?” “You are banished.” “On what grounds?” “As a blasphemer. You have repudiated the gods of the State.” “Who is the informer?” “The sycophant, the invisible, who is present everywhere.” “All is probable; nothing is certain,” exclaimed Protagoras. “Yes, this is certain.” “Well, my fabric of thought is shattered against this certainty as everything else is shattered.” “[Greek: _Pànta reî_]. Everything flows away; nothing endures; all comes to birth, grows, and dies.” “Farewell, then, Aspasia, Socrates, friends, fatherland! “Farewell!” Protagoras departed with his mantle drawn over his head. “Will Athens miss Protagoras?” asked Aspasia. “He has taught the Athenians to think and to doubt; and doubt is the beginning of wisdom.” “Aristophanes has murdered Protagoras, and he will murder you some day, Socrates.” “He has done that already; my wife rejoices at it, but still I live.”