guide. "If he were really divine he would be living to this day."
"Is he, then, dead?" I asked.
"He never lived; and for the last two thousand years or more his temple has been a heap of ruins."
I wept to hear that Apollo, the god of light and music, was no more — that his fair temple had fallen into ruins and the fire upon his altar had been extinguished; then, wiping a tear from my eyes, I said, "Oh, but our gods were fair and beautiful; our religion was rich and picturesque. It made the Greeks a nation of poets, orators, artists, warriors, thinkers. It made Athens a city of light; it created the beautiful, the true, the good — yes, our religion was divine."
"It had only one fault," interrupted my guide.
"What was that?" I inquired, without knowing what his answer would be.
"It was not true."
"But I still believe in Apollo," I exclaimed; "he is not dead, I know he is alive."
"Prove it," he said to me; then, pausing for a moment, "if you produce him," he said, "we shall all fall down and worship
