“Oh! no,” exclaimed Theon, half audibly, as he gazed on the serene countenance before him, “this man is not an atheist.”
“What thoughts are with you, my son, this morning?” said the philosopher, with kind solicitude. “I doubt your plunge in Ilyssus disturbed your dreams. Did the image of a fair nymph, or of a river god flit round your couch, and drive sleep from your eyelids?”
“I was in some danger from the first,” said the youth, half smiling, half blushing, “until a visitant of a different character, and one, I imagine, more wont to soothe than to disturb the mind, brought to my imagination a host of doubts and fears, which your presence alone has dispelled.”
“And who played the part of your incubus?” demanded the Sage.
“Even yourself, most benign and indulgent of men.”
“Truly, I grieve to have acted so ill by thee, my son. It shall be well, however, if having inflicted the disease, I may be its physician.”
“On leaving you last night,” said Theon, “I encountered Cleanthes. He came from the perusal of your writings, and brought charges against them which I was unprepared to answer.”
“Let us hear them, my son; perhaps, until you shall have perused them yourself, we may assist your difficulty.”
“First, that they deny the existence of the Gods.”
“I see but one other assertion, that could equal that in folly,” said Epicurus.