Soc. So much, then, being granted, Prodicus and Hippias, I said, let our friend Protagoras vindicate the correctness of the answer he made at first—not that which he made at the very beginning, cf. Plat. Prot. 330a ff. when he said that, while there were five parts of virtue, none of them was like any other, but each had its particular function: I do not refer to that, but the statement he made afterwards, cf. Plat. Prot. 349d ff . when he proceeded to say that four of them had a considerable resemblance to each other, but one was quite different from the rest—courage; and he told me I should perceive this by the following token: You will find, Socrates, said he, that men may be most unholy, most unjust, most dissolute, and most ignorant, yet most courageous; whence you may judge that courage is very different from the other parts of virtue. His answer caused me great surprise at the moment, and still more when I went into the matter with your help. But anyhow, I asked him whether by the brave he meant bold. Yes, he replied, and impetuous. Protagoras, I said, do you remember making this answer?
 He admitted he did.
 Well now, I said, tell us, towards what do you mean they are impetuous when they are courageous? Towards the same things as cowards?
 No, he said.
 Then towards other things?
 Yes, he said.
 Do cowards go after things that allow boldness, and the courageous after dreadful things?
 So people say, Socrates.
 Quite true, I said. But my point is rather, towards what, according to you, are the brave impetuous? Dreadful things, in the belief that they are dreadful, or towards what is not dreadful?
 No, he said; the former has just been shown, by the arguments you put forward, to be impossible .
 Quite true again, I said; so that if this proof was correct, no one goes to meet what he regards as dreadful, since to be overcome by oneself was found to be ignorance.
 He admitted this.
 And yet all men go also to meet what they can face boldly, whether cowardly or brave, and in this respect cowardly and brave go to meet the same things.
 But still, Socrates, he said, what cowards go to meet is the very opposite of what the courageous go to meet. For instance, the latter are willing to go to war, but the former are not. 
 Is going to war an honorable thing, I asked, or a base thing?
 Honorable, he replied.
 Then if it is honorable, we have admitted, by our former argument, that it is also good for we agreed that all honorable actions were good.
 True, and I abide by that decision. Soc. You are right to do so, I said. But which sort of men do you say are not willing to go to war, that being an honorable and good thing to do?
 The cowardly, he replied.
 Then, I went on, if it is honorable and good, is it also pleasant?
 That certainly has been admitted, he said.
 Now do the cowards wittingly refuse to go to what is more honorable, better, and pleasanter?
 Well, if we admit that too, he replied, we shall undo our previous admissions. 
 But what of the courageous man? Does he not go to the more honorable and better and pleasanter? 
 
 I am forced to admit that, he said.
 Now, in general, courageous men do not feel base fears, when they fear, nor is there anything base in their boldness?
 True, he said.
 And if not base, then it must be honorable?
 He admitted this.
 And if honorable, then good?
 Yes. 
 And the cowardly and the bold and the mad, on the contrary, feel base fears and base boldness?
 He agreed.
 Do they feel base and evil boldness solely through stupidity and ignorance? 
 Just so, he said.
 Well now, the cause of cowards being cowardly, do you call this cowardice or courage?
 Cowardice, I call it, he replied.
 And were they not found to be cowards through ignorance of what is dreadful?
 Certainly, he said.
 And so they are cowards because of that ignorance? 
 He agreed.
 And the cause of their being cowards is admitted by you to be cowardice?
 He assented.
 Then ignorance of what is dreadful and not dreadful will be cowardice?
 He nodded assent.
 But surely courage, I went on, is the opposite of cowardice.
 Yes. 
 Then the wisdom that knows what is and what is not dreadful is opposed to the ignorance of these things?
 To this he could still nod assent. 
 And the ignorance of them is cowardice? 
 To this he nodded very reluctantly.
 So the wisdom that knows what is and what is not dreadful is courage, being opposed to the ignorance of these things?
 Here he could no longer bring himself to nod agreement, and remained silent. Then I proceeded: Why is it, Protagoras, that you neither affirm nor deny what I ask you?
 Finish it, he said, by yourself. 
 I must first ask you, I said, just one more question: Do you still think, as at the beginning, that there are any people who are most ignorant and yet most courageous?
 I see, Socrates, you have set your heart on making me your answerer; so, to oblige you, I will say that by what we have admitted I consider it impossible. 
 My only motive, I then said, in asking all these questions has been a desire to examine the various relations of virtue and its own special nature. Soc. For I know that, were it once made plain, that other question on which you and I have argued at such length on either side—you maintaining and I denying that virtue can be taught—would be cleared up satisfactorily. Our discussion, in its present result, seems to me as though it accused and mocked us like some human person; if it were given a voice it would say: What strange creatures you are, Socrates and Protagoras! You on the one hand, after having said at first that virtue cannot be taught, are now hot in opposition to yourself, endeavoring to prove that all things are knowledge—justice, temperance, and courage—which is the best way to make virtue appear teachable: for if virtue were anything else than knowledge, as Protagoras tried to make out, obviously it would not be teachable; but if as a matter of fact it turns out to be entirely knowledge, as you urge, Socrates, I shall be surprised if it is not teachable. Protagoras, on the other hand, though at first he claimed that it was teachable, now seems as eager for the opposite, declaring that it has been found to be almost anything but knowledge, which would make it quite unteachable! Now I, Protagoras, observing the extraordinary tangle into which we have managed to get the whole matter, am most anxious to have it thoroughly cleared up. And I should like to work our way through it until at last we reach what virtue is, and then go back and consider whether it is teachable or not, lest perchance your Epimetheus beguile and trip us up in our investigation as he overlooked us in your account of his distribution. cf. Plat. Prot. 321c . I like the Prometheus of your fable better than the Epimetheus; for he is of use to me, and I take Promethean thought continually for my own life when I am occupied with all these questions; so, with your consent, as I said at the beginning, I should be delighted to have your aid in the inquiry.
 I approve your zeal, Socrates, said Protagoras, and the way you develop your arguments; for I think I am not ill-natured, and I am the last person on earth to be envious. Indeed I have told many people how I regard you—as the man I admire far above any that I meet, and as quite an exception to men of your age; and I say I should not be surprised if you won high repute for wisdom. We shall pursue the subject on some other occasion, at your pleasure: for the present, it is time to turn to another affair. Soc. I quite agree, said I, if you think so: for I was long ago due to be where I told you I was going; I stayed merely to oblige our excellent Callias.
 Here our colloquy ended, and each went his way.