“Thou art young,” he replied. “In my time we said the same thing, and perhaps with greater reason. When Alexander timidly tried to explain why such and such a picture seemed to be fine, my friend Apelles caused him to be silent by saying that he was making the boys laugh who ground up the colours; and Alexander made his excuses! Ah, well! I do not believe that such tales really repay one for telling them. Whatever may be the attitude--the respect or arrogance--of the King towards contemporary painters, the pictures are not any the better, or any the worse, for it all. It is a matter of indifference. On the other hand, it may be good, and even noble, for an artist to dare and to be able to put himself _not_ above the King marching with an army near the walls of his home, but above all human laws, or even divine laws, when the Muses, his inspiring spirits, sway him.” Bryaxis was now standing. We murmured in wonder-- “But who has done that? Of whom do you speak?” “None, perhaps,” came the answer of the older man, and there was in his eyes the hazy look of the dreamer, “unless the great Parrhasius.... Did he do wisely, I wonder? I used to believe so, but to-day I doubt and know not what to think about it.” Ophelion flung me an astonished look, but I could not enlighten him in any way as to the meaning behind the words of the aged artist. “We do not understand you, Bryaxis,” he said. He hinted, to put us upon the right way, “The Prometheus of Parrhasius.” “Yes; what can you tell us of that?” “Do you not know how Parrhasius painted the Prometheus of the Acropolis?” “No. We have not been told how it was done.” “You do not know of that amazing scene--the deathly tragedy and alarums from whence that picture emerged, bloodstained?” “Speak. Tell us all the scene; we know nought of it.” For an instant Bryaxis let his regards rest upon our young faces, as if he hesitated to burden our spirits with such a memory. Then he said with decision-- “Very good. I will tell you all.” CHAPTER II That which I am going to relate to you took place in the year in which Plato died. I was then in Halicarnassus engaged upon my part of the labour that was to produce at last the great tomb of King Mausolus the Long-haired. It was a thankless task if ever there was one. Scopas, who directed all of us, had decided to decorate the whole of the eastern front of the monument himself, so that from the early morning sunrise when they made the sacrifices the marbles of our master were resplendent in the full light and, truly, people saw little of the other work. To his comrade of the chisel, Timotheus, he had given the lateral face of the monument, south; less interesting and more extended. Leochares was entrusted with the western front. As for me, I had taken that side others had not wished for--the northern, an enormous piece of work perpetually in the shadow.