Gorgius hung his head lower yet—
"Yes, yes, yes!... but ... nevertheless all is over. Olympus is deserted."
Julian gazed at him, surprised.
"You see," continued Gorgius, "the earth breeds nowadays only hard men or weak men. The gods can only laugh at them, or grow wrath with them. They are not worth destroying. They will perish of themselves by sickness, debauchery, or decline. The gods are grown weary and they have departed!"
"And do you think, Gorgius, that the human race must disappear?"
The priest shook his bald head—
"Ah, ah, ah! The earth is in pain. The rivers flow more slowly; the flowers in spring have not their old fragrance. An ancient fisherman lately told me that one can see Etna no longer as we used to do. The air has become thicker and darker, the sun is waxing weak; the end of the world is near...."
"Tell me, Gorgius, can you remember better times?"
The old man brightened up, and his eyes shone.
"When I first came here in the first years of the reign of Constantine," he said joyfully, "grand festivals were celebrated every year in honour of Apollo. What numbers of lads and virgins used to come to this holy wood! How the moon used to shine! How exquisite the smell of the cypresses! How the nightingales used to sing! And when their chant ceased, the air would tremble with nocturnal kisses and sighings of love, as with the beatings of invisible wings."