tracing designs on the ground, as though he were always at work,
stood Phidias, the man "who made gods for Athens." On the edge of
the fountain sat a man with his legs dangling and his mouth
perpetually moving, as though he were sharpening his tongue for
thrust and counter-thrust; his brow was furrowed and worn as though with
fruitless thought, his eyes glowered like those of a serpent
watching for its prey. That was the Sophist, Protagoras, the
reasoner for hire, who for a few figs or a pair of obols, could make
black seem white, but was tolerated in this brilliant society,
because he could carry on a dialogue. They used him to enliven
their meetings, and pitted him in argument against Socrates, who,
however, always entangled him in the meshes of his dialectic. At
last came the one they expected. It was the head of the State, who
would have been king had not the kingship been abolished. His
appearance was majestic, but his entrance without a body-guard was
like that of a simple citizen. He ruled also only by force of his
personal qualities--wisdom, strength of will, moderation,
forethought.

After exchanging greetings which showed that they had already met
that day, for they had been celebrating the deliverance from Persia
at the Salamis festival, the company sat down on the long
semicircular marble seat, called the Hemicyklion. When all had taken
their seats, which were reserved for each according to prescription,
a silence followed which was unusual in this circle, for they were
accustomed to assemble as if for an intellectual feast at every
sunset. It was a symposium of minds, at which the excesses,
according to Alcibiades, were only spiritual.

Alcibiades, the second youngest, but spoilt and aggressive, was the