“Great Jerusalem, you were racing so I could hardly catch up!” he panted, as he joined me. “Where you bound for, anyway?” “Where are you bound for?” I countered. “To the pageant, of course,” he informed me. And, amiably unconscious that he might be interfering with my plans, he suggested, “Well, we both seem to be going in the same direction, so what do you say to going together?” “Yes, let’s go together,” I had to acquiesce; and so it happened that Stranahan and I reached the Agripides Theatre arm in arm. As I might have known, we were much too early; the doors were open, but the audience had scarcely begun to arrive. Indeed, the whole enormous open-air theatre was occupied only by a few children who danced and played about the stage and romped from tier to tier of the seaweed-cushioned marble seats. Upon entering, we paused for a view of the giant theatre, which seemed large enough to accommodate an entire community, and which was constructed with a simple and yet majestic art that I thought admirable. The seat arrangement was that of the typical Greek theatre, but the stage surprised me, not only by its size but by its general appearance, for it was not less than two or three acres in extent, and was completely enclosed by a ring of columns bearing a dome apparently inlaid with ebony and gold. But what particularly caught my attention was an object which was evidently not an integral part of the building--an amorphous mass many feet in height and covering more than half of the stage, but completely mantled in a linen-like white cloth that was like a garment of mystery. But Stranahan would brook not more than a moment’s pause for viewing the building. Impetuously he started down the steeply sloping central aisle, and did not halt until he had reached the front row, where he appropriated the best seat as nonchalantly as though it had been reserved for him. Of course, I had no choice except to deposit myself at his side; but I could not help wishing that he had chosen a less conspicuous position.