“Ah, my wife,” exclaims the happy father, with his old enthusiasm for his wonderful country, “the Greek has conquered the Roman this day. The Greek has thrown Sejanus from his lofty seat. Did I not say, my children, that physical strength is overmatched by intellectual power? Have we accomplished our ends with blaring trumpets? In the silence of Aldo there was more power than in all the vaunted greatness of the infamous Sejanus. If the lad had uttered but a word at that crucial moment, the history of Rome would have been changed.” “Thou speakest truly, O father,” says Gyges. “The Greeks are thought to be weak, O my son, but they were once the greatest nation that ever lived. Ay, in the shadows of divine mountains, in the soft light of sacred valleys, has the truth entered into the souls of our countrymen. While our ancestors were clanging their swords against the sacred ones suspended over the doors of our columned temples, in order to make themselves invincible in battle; while the seeds of our heroes were ripening on Iliadic plains; while the words of Aeschylus--the heroic Son of a Divinity--were being sung in white theatres to the Hellenes, frenzied with religious dithyrambics,--what were the Romans doing? They were worshipping terra-cotta figures; they were living in huts; they knew neither poetry nor philosophy.” “Thou fillest our souls with love for our Fatherland, O my sire,” exclaims Psyche, moved by the words of Alcmaeon. “Fatherland!” continues Alcmaeon. “Ay, in the minds of the Greeks have originated the truths of the world. The divine spirit of our Fatherland shone in a glorious, effulgent day. Having long warmed the world with celestial rays, the spirit now sleeps. There will be a morrow, my loved ones, when the harvest grown under that heat will be garnered. Ah, shall we ever see the day when triumphant Athene shall take the spear and shield from restless and impetuous Ares and crown his head with the olive-wreath of peace?” Alcmaeon pauses. His voice is trembling. He seems to be gathering fresh thoughts from the profoundest depths of his mind. The evening has now fallen, and the peristyle is shrouded in darkness. So impressive is the effect of Alcmaeon’s words that his pensive hearers are stirred to the very radicles of their souls.