in you."

Just at that moment, obeying an uncontrollable impulse, Hermon pulled the
bandage from his eyes to see once more the woman to whom this warm homage
was paid.

Was the experienced connoisseur of art and the artist soul in the right?

He had told himself the same thing when he selected Daphne for a model,
and her head reproduced what Proclus praised as the common possession of
Daphne and Demeter. Truthful Myrtilus had also seen it. Perhaps his
work had really been so marvellously successful because, while he was
engaged upon it, his friend had constantly stood before his mind in all
the charm of her inexhaustible goodness.

Animated by the ardent desire to gaze once more at the beloved face, to
which he now owed also this unexpectedly great success, he turned toward
the spot whence her voice had reached him; but a wall of violet mist,
dotted with black specks, was all that his blinded eyes showed him, and
with a low groan he drew the linen cloth over the burns.

This time Proclus also perceived what was passing in the poor artist's
mind, and when he took leave of him it was with the resolve to do his
utmost to brighten with the stars of recognition and renown the dark
night of suffering which enshrouded this highly gifted sculptor, whose
unexpectedly great modesty had prepossessed him still more in his favour.