came upon a row of open graves, cut in the solid rock–(for a while one
of them served Socrates for a prison)–we passed around the shoulder of
the hill, and the citadel, in all its ruined magnificence, burst upon
us! We hurried across the ravine and up a winding road, and stood on
the old Acropolis, with the prodigious walls of the citadel towering
above our heads. – Mark Twain, The Innocents Abroad
Tomorrow, Socrates’ Prison.