CRITO. What makes you think that?

SOCRATES. I will tell you. For I must surely die on the day after the ship arrives.

CRITO. So say the authorities, at least.

SOCRATES. Then I do not think it will arrive today, but tomorrow. I infer this from a certain dream I had a little while ago during the night; and perhaps it was a good thing you did not wake me.

CRITO. What was the dream?

SOCRATES. A beautiful and fair woman, clothed in white garments, approached me, called me, and said: "Socrates, on the third day you will reach fertile Phthia."

CRITO. What a strange dream, Socrates.

SOCRATES. But its meaning seems quite clear to me, Crito.

CRITO. Too clear, it seems. But my divine Socrates, even now listen to me and save yourself. If you die, it will not be a single misfortune for me. Not only will I be deprived of a friend the likes of whom I shall never find again, but many who do not know you and me well will think that I could have saved you if I had been willing to spend the money, but that I neglected you. And what could be a worse reputation than seeming to value money more than friends? The multitude will never believe that it was you yourself who refused to leave this place when we were eager to get you out.

SOCRATES. But my dear Crito, why should we care so much about the opinion of the multitude? The most reasonable men, whose opinions are more worth considering, will believe that the things were done exactly as they were.

CRITO. Yet you see, Socrates, that it is necessary to care about the opinion of the multitude as well. Your present situation shows clearly that the multitude can inflict not just the smallest evils, but almost the greatest, if someone is slandered among them.

SOCRATES. I only wish, Crito, that the multitude were capable of doing the greatest evils, so that they might also be capable of doing the greatest goods. That would be fine. But as it is, they can do neither. For they cannot make a man either wise or foolish, but they act completely at random.