"You speak lightly for a priest of Apollo."

"Oh, as for that, I am no bigot. The priesthood is a professional
matter, and the name of Apollo is as good as any other. How many
altars do you think there have been in this grove?"

"I do not know."

"Just four-and-twenty, including that of the martyr Babylas, whose
ruined chapel you see just beyond us. I have had something to do
with most of them in my time. They--are transitory. They give
employment to care-takers for a while. But the thing that lasts, and
the thing that interests me, is the human life that plays around
them. The game has been going on for centuries. It still disports
itself very pleasantly on summer evenings through these shady walks.
Believe me, for I know. Daphne and Apollo were shadows. But the
flying maidens and the pursuing lovers, the music and the dances,
these are the realities. Life is the game, and the world keeps it up
merrily. But you? You are of a sad countenance for one so young and
so fair. Are you a loser in the game?"

The words and tone of the speaker fitted Hermas' mood as a key fits
the lock. He opened his heart to the old man, and told him the story
of his life: his luxurious boyhood in his father's house; the
irresistible spell which compelled him to forsake it when he heard
John's preaching of the new religion; his lonely year with the
anchorites among the mountains; the strict discipline in his
teacher's house at Antioch; his weariness of duty, his distaste for
poverty, his discontent with worship.