N. S. SERGEYEV-TSENSKY: THE DEMIGOD.
At wealthy Corinth, in the house of Megacles, the highly revered, the minstrels stood and chanted their melodies.
There were two of them—a youth and an old man.
At first the old man sang in a quavering and feeble voice, and the youth accompanied him sadly upon a seven-stringed lyre.
What can the old man be singing about? He sang about the olden time when the sun glowed more ardently, when fruits grew more amply, when wine was more intoxicating. He sang about the olden time, when heroes lived whose places none had come to take. He sang how in the gloomy chasms of Hades rove the mournful shadows of mortals.
A feast was being held in the house of Megacles. On the long couch behind the table the guests reclined and drank thick Cyprus wine from costly goblets.
And none listened to the old man.
But he ceased, and the youthful minstrel began to sing. In a sonorous and powerful voice he sang melodies which no man had hitherto heard.
