"Jugglers! Jugglers!" he cried.
And there they were at the side of the road, showing their tricks and
begging for coins. One man was walking on his hands and tossing a ball
about with his feet. Another was swallowing a sword.
"Stop, Glaucon!" cried Charmides, "I must see him. He will kill
himself."
"No, my little master," replied the slave. "You shall see him again at
Olympia. See your father. He would be vexed if we waited."
And there was the master ahead, pushing forward rapidly, looking neither
to the right hand nor the left. The boy sighed.
"He is hurrying to see Creon. He forgets me!" he thought.
But immediately his eyes were caught by some new thing, and his face
was gay again. So the little company traveled up the sloping road amid
interesting sights. For here were people from all the corners of the
known world--Greeks from Asia in trailing robes, Arabs in white turbans,
black men from Egypt, kings from Sicily, Persians with their curled
beards, half civilized men from the north in garments of skin. "See!"
said Glaucon at last as they reached a hilltop, "the temple!"
He pointed ahead. There shone the tip of the roof and its gold ornament.
Hovering above was a marble statue with spread wings.
"And there is Victory!" whispered Charmides.
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