“Deem not that thou hast in aught excited the displeasure of the Gods.  In deserting their altars for Truth’s sake, thou didst render them the most acceptable of sacrifices, the only one, it may be, by which they set much store.  But, Eubulides, take heed how thou again sufferest the unworthiness of men to overcome the instincts of thine own nature.  Thy holiest sentiments should not have been at the mercy of a knave.  If the oracle of Dorylaeum was an imposture, hadst thou no oracle in thine own bosom?  If the voice of Religion was no longer breathed from the tripod, were the winds and waters silent, or had aught quenched the everlasting stars?  If there was no power to impose its mandates from without, couldst thou be unconscious of a power within?  If thou hadst nothing to reveal unto men, mightest thou not have found somewhat to propound unto them?  Know this, that thou hast never experienced a more truly religious emotion than that which led thee to form the design of overthrowing this my temple, the abode, as thou didst deem it, of fraud and superstition.”

“But now, Phoebus,” Eubulides ventured to reply, “shall I not return to the shrine purified by thy presence, and again officiate as thy unworthy minister?”

“No, Eubulides,” returned Phoebus, with a smile; “silver is good, but not for ploughshares.  Thy strange experience, thy long wanderings, thy lonely meditations, and varied intercourse with men, have spoiled thee for a priest, while, as I would fain hope, qualifying thee for a sage.  Some worthy person may easily be found to preside over this temple; and by the aid of such inspiration as I may from time to time see meet to vouchsafe him, administer its affairs indifferently well.  Do thou, Eubulides, consecrate thy powers to a more august service than Apollo’s, to one that shall endure when Delphi and Delos know his no more.”

“To whose service, Phoebus?” inquired Eubulides.

“To the service of Humanity, my son,” responded Apollo.

DUKE VIRGIL

I

The citizens of Mantua were weary of revolutions.  They had acknowledged the suzerainty of the Emperor Frederick and shaken it off.  They had had a Podesta of their own and had shaken him off.  They had expelled a Papal Legate, incurring excommunication thereby.  They had tried dictators, consuls, praetors, councils of ten, and other numbers odd and even, and ere the middle of the thirteenth century were luxuriating in the enjoyment of perfect anarchy.

An assembly met daily in quest of a remedy, but its members were forbidden to propose anything old, and were unable to invent anything new.

“Why not consult Manto, the alchemist’s daughter, our prophetess, our Sibyl?” the young Benedetto asked at last.

“Why not?” repeated Eustachio, an elderly man.

“Why not, indeed?” interrogated Leonardo, a man of mature years.