Bah! Thou a doctor! Thou art superstitious. Simple Pausanias, ’twas no miracle! Pantheia, for I know her kinsmen well, Was subject to these trances from a girl. Empedocles would say so, did he deign; But he still lets the people, whom he scorns, Gape and cry _wizard_ at him, if they list. But thou, thou art no company for him: Thou art as cross, as soured as himself. Thou hast some wrong from thine own citizens, And then thy friend is banished; and on that, Straightway thou fallest to arraign the times, As if the sky was impious not to fall. The sophists are no enemies of his; I hear, Gorgias, their chief, speaks nobly of him, As of his gifted master, and once friend. He is too scornful, too high-wrought, too bitter. ’Tis not the times, ’tis not the sophists, vex him: There is some root of suffering in himself, Some secret and unfollowed vein of woe, Which makes the time look black and sad to him. Pester him not, in this his sombre mood, With questionings about an idle tale, But lead him through the lovely mountain paths, And keep his mind from preying on itself, And talk to him of things at hand and common, Not miracles! thou art a learned man, But credulous of fables as a girl. PAUSANIAS. And thou, a boy whose tongue outruns his knowledge, And on whose lightness blame is thrown away. Enough of this! I see the litter wind Up by the torrent-side, under the pines. I must rejoin Empedocles. Do thou Crouch in the brushwood till the mules have passed; Then play thy kind part well. Farewell till night! SCENE II.--_Noon. A Glen on the highest skirts of the woody region of Etna._ EMPEDOCLES. PAUSANIAS. PAUSANIAS. The noon is hot. When we have crossed the stream, We shall have left the woody tract, and come Upon the open shoulder of the hill. See how the giant spires of yellow bloom Of the sun-loving gentian, in the heat,[15] Are shining on those naked slopes like flame! Let us rest here; and now, Empedocles, Pantheia’s history! [_A harp-note below is heard._ EMPEDOCLES. Hark! what sound was that Rose from below? If it were possible, And we were not so far from human haunt, I should have said that some one touched a harp. Hark! there again! PAUSANIAS. ’Tis the boy Callicles, The sweetest harp-player in Catana. He is forever coming on these hills, In summer, to all country-festivals, With a gay revelling band; he breaks from them Sometimes, and wanders far among the glens. But heed him not, he will not mount to us; I spoke with him this morning. Once more, therefore, Instruct me of Pantheia’s story, master, As I have prayed thee. EMPEDOCLES. That? and to what end? PAUSANIAS.