We turn into another street; a rhapsodist is reciting there: men, women, children are thronging round him: the tears are running down their cheeks: their eyes are fixed: their very breath is still; for he is telling how Priam fell at the feet of Achilles, and kissed those hands,--the terrible--the murderous,--which had slain so many of his sons.

(-- kai kuse cheiras, deinas, anorophonous, ai oi poleas ktanon uias.) We enter the public place; there is a ring of youths, all leaning forward, with sparkling eyes, and gestures of expectation.

Socrates is pitted against the famous atheist, from Ionia, and has just brought him to a contradiction in terms.

But we are interrupted.

The herald is crying--"Room for the Prytanes." The general assembly is to meet.