“Grant that it was merited. No, no, my son, we will convince all we can, we will silence as few as possible, and we will terrify none.”
“Remember the exit of Timocrates,” said Theon, “was not that made in terror?”
“Yes; but it was the work of his conscience, not of my eyes; if the first had been silent, I imagine he would have stood the last very well.”
“Do not name the wretch,” cried Metrodorus indignantly. “Oh! my young Corinthian, did you know all the patience and forbearance that his Master had shown towards him, all the pains he took with him, the gentleness with which he admonished him, the seriousness with which he warned him, the thousand times that he forgave him; and then at last, when he dared to insult his Master’s adopted child, the lovely Hedeia, and the indignant disciples thrust him from the Gardens, he goes to our enemies, the enemies of his Master, and feeds their malice with infernal lies. Curses of the furies on the wretch!”
“Fie! how darest thou?” said Epicurus, thrusting his scholar indignantly from him. “Thy anger is unworthy of a man, how much then of a brother! Go, and recollect thyself, my son!” softening his voice, as he saw a tear in Metrodorus’s eye.—“The Corinthian will accompany you to the Gardens, I will join you when I have concluded this treatise.”—Metrodorus took the arm of Theon, and they left the apartment.
CHAPTER IX.
“Do not,” said Metrodorus to Theon, “take me as the best sample of the pupils of Epicurus. We are not all so hot brained and hot tongued.”
“Nay!” returned his companion, “I am too young in philosophy to blame your warmth. In your place, I should have been as hot myself.”
“I am glad to hear it. I like you the better for the sentiment. But the sun scorches dreadfully, let us seek shelter.”
They turned into a thicket, and proceeding some way, caught on the still air the notes of a flute. They advanced and came to a beautiful bank of verdure, bordered by the river, and shadowed by a group of thick and wide spreading oaks. “It is Leontium,” said Metrodorus. “No other in Attica can breathe the flute so sweetly.” They turned one of the trunks, and found her lying on the turf; her shoulder leaning against a tree, and her figure raised on one elbow. Beside her was seated the black eyed girl, whom Theon had before seen; her taper fingers twining into a wreath the scented flowers, which were lightly thrown into her lap by the gay Sofron, who stood at some distance among the shrubs.