“Friend Elpidias, like you, I, too, was plunged in this gloom when the light of earthly life was removed from my eyes.  But an inner voice told me:  ’Tread this new path without hesitation, and I went.”

“But whither do you go, O son of Sophroniscus?  Here there is no way, no path, not even a ray of light; nothing but a chaos of rocks, mist, and gloom.”

“True.  But, my Elpidias, since you are aware of this sad truth, have you not asked yourself what is the most distressing thing in your present situation?”

“Undoubtedly the dismal darkness.”

“Then one should seek for light.  Perchance you will find here the great law—­that mortals must in darkness seek the source of life.  Do you not think it is better so to seek than to remain sitting in one spot? I think it is, therefore I keep walking.  Farewell!”

“Oh, good Socrates, abandon me not!  You go with sure steps through the pathless chaos in Hades.  Hold out to me but a fold of your mantle—­”

“If you think it is better for you, too, then follow me, friend Elpidias.”

And the two shades walked on, while the soul of Ctesippus, released by sleep from its mortal envelop, flew after them, greedily absorbing the tones of the clear Socratic speech.

“Are you here, good Socrates?” the voice of the Athenian again was heard.  “Why are you silent?  Converse shortens the way, and I swear, by Hercules, never did I have to traverse such a horrid way.”

“Put questions, friend Elpidias!  The question of one who seeks knowledge brings forth answers and produces conversation.”

Elpidias maintained silence for a moment, and then, after he had collected his thoughts, asked: 

“Yes, this is what I wanted to say—­tell me, my poor Socrates, did they at least give you a good burial?”

“I must confess, friend Elpidias, I cannot satisfy your curiosity.”

“I understand, my poor Socrates, it doesn’t help you cut a figure.  Now with me it was so different!  Oh, how they buried me, how magnificently they buried me, my poor fellow-Wanderer!  I still think with great pleasure of those lovely moments after my death.  First they washed me and sprinkled me with well-smelling balsam.  Then my faithful Larissa dressed me in garments of the finest weave.  The best mourning-women of the city tore their hair from their heads because they had been promised good pay, and in the family vault they placed an amphora—­a crater with beautiful, decorated handles of bronze, and, besides, a vial.—­”

“Stay, friend Elpidias.  I am convinced that:  the faithful Larissa converted her love into several minas.  Yet—­”

“Exactly ten minas and four drachmas, not counting the drinks for the guests.  I hardly think that the richest tanner can come before the souls of his ancestors and boast of such respect on the part of the living.”

“Friend Elpidias, don’t you think that money would have been of more use to the poor people who are still alive in Athens than to you at this moment?”