Round about, the fires of heaven tore the dark clouds, and out of the howling storm again resounded the powerful voice: 

“Whither did your doubts tend, you arrogant sage, who renounce humility, the most beautiful adornment of earthly virtues?  You abandoned the friendly shelter of credulous simplicity to wander in the desert of doubt.  You have seen this dead space from which the living gods have departed.  Will you traverse it, you insignificant worm, who crawl in the dust of your pitiful profanation of the gods?  Will you vivify the world?  Will you conceive the unknown divinity to whom you do not dare to pray?  You miserable digger of dung, soiled by the smut of ruined altars, are you perchance the architect who shall build the new temple?  Upon what do you base your hopes, you who disavow the old gods and have no new gods to take their place?  The eternal night of doubts unsolved, the dead desert, deprived of the living spirit—­this is your world, you pitiful worm, who gnawed at the living belief which was a refuge for simple hearts, who converted the world into a dead chaos.  Now, then, where are you, you insignificant, blasphemous sage?”

Nothing was heard but the mighty storm roaring through the spaces.  Then the thunder died away, the wind folded its pinions, and torrents of rain streamed through the darkness, like incessant floods of tears which threatened to devour the earth and drown it in a deluge of unquenchable grief.

It seemed to Ctesippus that the master was overcome, and that the fearless, restless, questioning voice had been silenced forever.  But a few moments later it issued again from the same spot.

“Your words, son of Cronos, hit the mark better than your thunderbolts.  The thoughts you have cast into my terrified soul have haunted me often, and it has sometimes seemed as if my heart would break under the burden of their unendurable anguish.  Yes, I abandoned the friendly shelter of credulous simplicity.  Yes, I have seen the spaces from which the living gods have departed enveloped in the night of eternal doubt.  But I walked without fear, for my ‘Daemon’ lighted the way, the divine beginning of all life.  Let us investigate the question.  Are not offerings of incense burnt on your altars in the name of Him who gives life?  You are stealing what belongs to another!  Not you, but that other, is served by credulous simplicity.  Yes, you are right, I am no architect.  I am not the builder of a new temple.  Not to me was it given to raise from the earth to the heavens the glorious structure of the coming faith.  I am one who digs dung, soiled by the smut of destruction.  But my conscience tells me, son of Cronos, that the work of one who digs dung is also necessary for the future temple.  When the time comes for the proud and stately edifice to stand on the purified place, and for the living divinity of the new belief to erect his throne upon it, I, the modest digger of dung, will go to him and say:  ’Here am I who restlessly crawled in the dust of disavowal.  When surrounded by fog and soot, I had no time to raise my eyes from the ground; my head had only a vague conception of the future building.  Will you reject me, you just one, Just, and True, and Great?’”