Zimbardo grudgingly admitted to himself that Troy was a genius-a weak, impractical genius, but a genius nonetheless.

He had completely made up his mind to attend the Troy Latin Schoolnot because he loved Latin, but because Troy was the seat of much social gaiety, and because there was a large seminary for girls in that town.

O Mothers of the Brazen Spear, And maidens, maidens, brides of shame, Troy is a smoke, a dying flame; Together we will weep for her: I call ye as a wide-wing'd bird Calleth the children of her fold, To cry, ah, not the cry men heard In Ilion, not the songs of old, That echoed when my hand was true On Priam's sceptre, and my feet Touched on the stone one signal beat,