“I believe in the Spartan training to a great extent, but I do not think the body should be trained exclusively and the mind neglected; therefore I have the tragedies performed which were unknown to Sparta. The Spartans were a fine nation of materialists.”
“You are right!” said Maurice earnestly; “one should never let the material nature overpower the spiritual.”
“You speak warmly.”
“As I was taught. My mother was a religious woman, and trained me carefully. One cannot rid one’s self of youthful teachings; we may forget them for a time, but they always force themselves before the mind sooner or later.”
“Not always. I also was taught as you, but forty years of solitude—comparative solitude—and pondering have turned me into what I am—an agnostic. So your mother was a good woman? is she alive?”
“No; she died many years ago.”
“And your father?”
“Is also dead. I am an orphan. No relations in the world—at least, none I care about.”
Justinian gazed at the young man as if he would read his very soul, then, turning away with a half-suppressed sigh, entered the theatre.
It was modelled on that of Athens,—a large semicircle hewn out of the volcanic rock, with seats of the red limestone so frequent in Melnos. The stage faced the mountain, and had an altar beautifully sculptured in front of it, and life-sized statues of Dionysius and Phœbus on either side.