A well-known voice said, "Enter Philæmon. It is a beautiful retreat. The soft verdant grass tempts to repose; a gentle breeze brings fragrance from the blossoms; and the grasshoppers are chirping with a summer-like and sonorous sound. Enter, my son."
"Thanks, Anaxagoras," replied Philæmon, as he moved forward to give and receive the cordial salutation of his friend: "I have scarcely travelled far enough to need repose; but the day is sultry, and this balmy air is indeed refreshing."
"Whither leads your path, my son?" inquired the good old man. "I perceive that no servant follows you with a seat whereon to rest, when you wish to enjoy the prospect, and your garments are girded about you, like one who travels afar."
"I seek Mount Hymettus, my father," replied Philæmon: "There I shall stop to-night, to take my last look of Athens. To-morrow, I join a company on their way to Persia; where they say Athenian learning is eagerly sought by the Great King and his nobles."
"And would you have left Athens without my blessing?" inquired Anaxagoras.
"In truth, my father, I wished to avoid the pain of parting," rejoined Philæmon. "Not even my beloved Paralus is aware that the homeless outcast of ungrateful Athens has left her walls forever."
The aged philosopher endeavoured to speak, but his voice was tremulous with emotion. After a short pause, he put his arm within Philæmon's, and said, "My son, we will journey together. I shall easily find my way back to Athens before the lamps of evening are lighted."
The young man spoke of the wearisome walk; and reminded him that Ibycus, the beloved of the gods, was murdered while returning to the city after twilight. But the philosopher replied, "My old limbs are used to fatigue, and everybody knows that the plain robe of Anaxagoras conceals no gold."
As they passed along through the smiling fields of Agra, the cheerfulness of the scene redoubled the despondency of the exile. Troops of laughing girls were returning from the vineyards with baskets full of grapes; women were grinding corn, singing merrily, as they toiled; groups of boys were throwing quoits, or seated on the grass eagerly playing at dice, and anon filling the air with their shouts; in one place was a rural procession in honour of Dionysus; in another, loads of pure Pentelic marble were on their way from the quarry, to increase the architectural glory of Athens.
"I could almost envy that senseless stone!" exclaimed Philæmon. "It goes where I have spent many a happy hour, and where I shall never enter more. It is destined for the Temple of the Muses, which Plato is causing to be built among the olive-groves of Academus. The model is more beautifully simple than anything I have ever seen."