And it may be present even where no final conquest can ensue?
Æsculapius.
Ah! how white they grow! How the serpents drop out of their tresses.
Nike.
I am feeling forward with my finger-tips, like a blind woman searching.... And the real splendour of victory may consist in the helpless mortal state; may blossom there, while it only budded in our immortality?
Æsculapius.
May consist, really, of the effort, the desire,
the act of gathering up the will to make the plunge. This will be victory now, it will be the drawing of the bow-string and not the mere cessation of the arrow-flight.