It was the saddest day of my life.  My master, Socrates, was going to become the first martyr of philosophy. 

Socrates should die, said the judges.  He corrupted the youths by intoxicating them with debate.  His aristocratic philosophy dissuaded democracy.  He rejected the ancient gods of Greece.  He should die, thought Anytus, the democratic leader.  Anytus had a personal grudge too against Socrates. His son had become a disciple of the Master.  Having rejected the gods of his fathers, Anytus' son dared to laugh in his father's face.

The people of Athens clamoured for the death of the Master. Had he not denied their gods?  Woe to him who teaches men faster than they can learn.

So they decreed that he should drink the hemlock.

We met him in the prison on the day he was to drink the hemlock. 

"We have done everything to secure your escape," I told Master.  We had bribed all the officials that stood between him and his liberty.  But Master refused.

"Look, Plato, I'm seventy," he said.  "How many more years are left for me?  It's better to die now.  I may not be able to die more usefully in the future."

We felt dejected.  We had no words to express our grief.

"Be of good cheer," said the Master, "and say that you are burying my body only."

He rose and went to the bath-chamber with Crito, who asked us to wait.  We felt like orphans as we waited.  Socrates was not just a master to us; he was our father.

The sun was setting in the horizon suffusing the sky with the colour of blood when Master came back to his bed.

The jailer came then.  He said to Master, "I know you are the noblest and gentlest and best of all who ever came to this place.  Yet I have to perform my duty.  Please do not be angry with me."  And he burst into tears.  Then he went out.

"How charming that man is," Socrates said to us.  "Since I have been in prison he has always been coming to see me.  Tell him to bring the cup, Crito."

"Yet," said Crito, "the sun is still upon the hill-tops, and many a one has taken the draught late.  There's still time."

"No, Crito, I'm not going to gain anything by delaying my death by a few seconds.  I would only be sparing and saving a life which is already gone. Go, go and tell them to bring the cup."

Crito made a gesture to his servant.  The servant left and returned a little later with the jailer.  In the hands of the jailer was the dreadful cup.

"You, my good friend," Socrates said to the jailer, "who are experienced in these matters, shall give me directions how I am to proceed."

The jailer advised Master to walk after drinking the cup until his legs felt too weak to walk.  Then he was to lie down.

Socrates took the cup from the jailer and, looking into his eyes, asked, "What do you say about making a libation out of this cup to any god?  May I, or not?"

The jailer answered calmly, "We only prepare just so much as we deem enough."

"I understand," said Master. 

With a calm smile he raised the cup to his lips. 

I had controlled my tears up to that time.  I couldn't hold them back any more.  I thought more of my misery than the Master's death.  I was losing my best friend, my guide, my father.

Crito moved away and wept in silence.

Apollodorus broke out into a loud cry.  He had been weeping silently all the while and couldn't control himself any more.  His wailing eroded our self-control.  We all wept like cowards.

"What is this strange outcry?"  asked Socrates.  "I sent away the women mainly in order that they might not offend in this way.  A man should die in peace. Be quiet."

We felt ashamed of ourselves and restrained our tears.

Socrates walked in his cell until his legs could not support him any more. 

The guard pressed the Master's feet and asked whether he had any feeling.  "No," said the Master.  The guard pressed the higher parts of the legs.  No feeling. There was no feeling at all.

"When the poison reaches the heart, that will be the end," said Socrates.

His body had gone numb from waist down. 

"Crito," said the Master, "I owe a cock to Asclepius; will you remember to pay the debt?"

They were the Master's last words.  He repaid his last debt.  What about our debt to him?  Can it ever be paid back?

"Is there anything else?"  Crito asked.

But there was no answer.

Crito closed the Master's eyes and mouth.

Standing there, in the year of 399 BC, I had a vision into the future.  I saw many masters meeting the same fate as Socrates.  Many of the wisest and the best were killed by political manipulators, fanatics, priests, and the masses.

The masses cannot understand wisdom.  What cannot be understood is seen as dangerous.  What is dangerous should be eliminated.  How many best men were eliminated so that folly could continue ruling mankind?

Folly is the governing passion of mankind.  Philosopher-kings have no place here.  Farewell, Master.