The long low edifice just beyond the Treasury of the Athenians was the Bouleuterion above which rose a rough mass of rock, the Rock of the Sibyl. A priest of Apollo at the entrance of the Bouleuterion gave each of the young men a wax tablet and stylus with which it was intended that he write the question that he wished answered by the Sibyl whose duty it was to make known the will of the god whose organ of inspiration she was. The question that appeared on the tablet of each was the same; “Shall I win the maiden I love?” The priest took the tablets and withdrew to the rock where the priestess, a virgin clad in white, having chewed the leaves of the sacred laurel and drunk from the prophetic underground stream, Kassotis, sat upon a tripod above a fissure in the rock from which a mystic vapor arose by which she soon became inspired. Her mutterings and ravings were interpreted by the priest who wrote them below the questions in verse.
As was customary the men did not remain near during the trance of the medium, but sought the Castalian Fountain which was east of the sacred precinct at the head of a wild and picturesque gorge. The fountain was in front of a smooth face of rock, the water issuing from a rock at the right and being carried through a channel to an opening at the extreme left.
Cimon and Zopyrus seated themselves beneath a plane tree and surveyed with delight their romantic surroundings. It was no wonder Apollo had here chosen a location for one of his shrines! The very breeze which brushed against their cheeks was like the breath of unseen spirits. The leaves of the plane trees whispered unintelligible secrets and the mountain stream murmured of mysteries as it moved majestically onward.
Suddenly the two became aware of a figure seated near the edge of the fountain nearly within touch of its cooling spray. It proved upon closer observation to be that of an old man with wrinkled countenance and long flowing beard. From under his shaggy brows he had surveyed the new-comers with searching eyes. His hands were folded across the head of a knotty walking-stick. Cimon, the true Greek, to whom goodness and purity were synonymous with outward beauty, turned away from the unlovely figure of the old man with an exclamation of annoyance, signifying that he disliked having the loveliness of the scene marred by the presence of the elderly stranger. But Zopyrus was differently affected by the sight of the aged one. Something vaguely familiar in the type of features held his gaze.
The old man continued to survey the two new-comers with a penetrating gaze till Cimon stood up abruptly and said to Zopyrus: “Our answers must be ready. Let us return to the rock of the Sibyl.”
He walked away from the fountain keeping his face averted, for he would not deign to glance again toward the aged stranger. But Zopyrus’ heart was filled with pity toward this old man whose eyes like living coals burned forth their last lustre from the ashy gray of his withered face.
“You are a stranger in Greece?” Zopyrus asked kindly.
The old man gave an affirmative nod and said, his tones seeming to issue from the recesses of a cavern, “You too, my young friend, are a stranger to Greece, but not so your companion,” with a nod toward Cimon, who now hesitated to leave the fountain side and lingered uncertainly to hear the discourse.
“You are right, father,” replied Zopyrus, bestowing upon him a look of mingled wonder and approbation, “I came over with King Xerxes, but am not intending to return to Persia. My companion here knows that though once half a Greek, I am now entirely won over to the cause of Hellas.”
“It is easy to turn over to the victorious side! Tell me did you fight for Greece before taking this step?”