Julian.
Oh, Agathon, it is a sin and a mockery to kneel to me. If you but knew how sinful I have become. Hekebolius, my beloved teacher, is sorely concerned about me, Agathon. He could tell you
How thick and moist your hair has grown; and how it curls.—But Mardonius—how goes it with him? His hair must be almost white now?
Agathon.
It is snow-white.
Julian.
How well Mardonius could interpret Homer! I am sure my old Mardonius has not his like at that.—Heroes embattled against heroes—and the gods above fanning the flames. I saw it all, as with my eyes.
Agathon.
Then your mind was set on being a great and victorious warrior.
Julian.
They were happy times, those six years in Cappadocia. Were the years longer then than now? It seems so, when I think of all they contained
Yes, they were happy years. We at our books, and Gallus on his Persian horse. He swept over the plain like the shadow of a cloud.—Oh, but one thing you must tell me. The church?
Agathon.
The church? Over the Holy Mamas's grave?
