"My son, you're young; although there are white hairs shining in your dark locks, and furrows on your brow already. But in the days when my hair was black and young girls used to look at me with favour, I remember sailing in a ship, near Thessalonica, and seeing Mount Olympus. Its base and its girdle melted into blue, and its snowy summit seemed hanging in the air, dominating sky and sea, golden and inaccessible. I mused 'Behold the dwelling of the gods!' and I was full of emotion. But on this same ship there was a scoffing old man who called himself an Epicurean. He pointed out Mount Olympus, and said to me: 'My friend, travellers have long ago climbed Olympus, and they saw that it was an ordinary mountain, like other mountains, on which there was nothing but snow, ice and stones!' And those words sank so deep into my heart that I shall remember them all my life." The Emperor smiled-- "Old man, your faith is childish. Suppose there were no Olympus--why should not the gods exist above, in the kingdom of the eternal Ideas, in the realm of the soul's light?" Gorgius hung his head lower yet-- "Yes, yes, yes!... but ... nevertheless all is over. Olympus is deserted." Julian gazed at him, surprised. "You see," continued Gorgius, "the earth breeds nowadays only hard men or weak men. The gods can only laugh at them, or grow wrath with them. They are not worth destroying. They will perish of themselves by sickness, debauchery, or decline. The gods are grown weary and they have departed!" "And do you think, Gorgius, that the human race must disappear?" The priest shook his bald head-- "Ah, ah, ah! The earth is in pain. The rivers flow more slowly; the flowers in spring have not their old fragrance. An ancient fisherman lately told me that one can see Etna no longer as we used to do. The air has become thicker and darker, the sun is waxing weak; the end of the world is near...." "Tell me, Gorgius, can you remember better times?" The old man brightened up, and his eyes shone. "When I first came here in the first years of the reign of Constantine," he said joyfully, "grand festivals were celebrated every year in honour of Apollo. What numbers of lads and virgins used to come to this holy wood! How the moon used to shine! How exquisite the smell of the cypresses! How the nightingales used to sing! And when their chant ceased, the air would tremble with nocturnal kisses and sighings of love, as with the beatings of invisible wings." Gorgius was silent and plunged in thought. At that moment the sound of church-singing came from behind the trees. "What is that?" asked Julian. "The monks," answered the priest. "Monks praying over a dead Galilean." "What, a Galilean in the wood sacred to Apollo?'"