The word shall say, "Is it my echo ?" and the deed shall say, "Is it my face ?"_'-- "The chorus passes, singing.

The voices die, there falls a silence, sent as it were from inner space.

The open sky is above the amphitheater.

And now there comes, from north to south, sailing that sea above, high, but not so high that their shape is indistinguishable, a long flight of cranes.
Heads move, eyes are raised, but none know why that interest is so keen, so still.

Then from out the throng rises, struck with forgetfulness of gathered Corinth and of its own reasons for being dumb as is the stone, a man's voice, and the fear that Pan gives ran yet around in that voice.