The answer was by no means satisfying. Gras had only heard that, after
being found uninjured in his studio, it had been dragged with great
exertion into the open air. The goldsmith Chello had directed the work.

Hermon remembered all this himself, yet, with an imperious curtness in
marked contrast to his usual pleasant manner to this worthy servant, he
hoarsely commanded him to bring Chello to him early the next morning, and
then again relapsed into his solitary meditations.

If the terrible conjecture which had just entered his mind should be
confirmed, no course remained save to extinguish the only new light which
now illumined the darkness of his night, or to become a cheat.

Yet his resolution was instantly formed. If the goldsmith corroborated
his fear, he would publicly attribute the rescued work to the man who
created it. And he persisted in this intention, indignantly silencing
the secret voice which strove to shake it. It temptingly urged that
Myrtilus, so rich in successes, needed no new garland. His lost sight
would permit him, Hermon, from reaping fresh laurels, and his friend
would so gladly bestow this one upon him. But he angrily closed his ears
to these enticements, and felt it a humiliation that they dared to
approach him.

With proud self-reliance he threw back his head, saying to himself that,
though Myrtilus should permit him ten times over to deck him self with
his feathers, he would reject them. He would remain himself, and was
conscious of possessing powers which perhaps surpassed his friend's.
He was as well qualified to create a genuine work of art as the best
sculptor, only hitherto the Muse had denied him success in awakening