Even had his eyes retained the power of sight, his blood was coursing
so wildly through his veins that he might perhaps have been unable to
distinguish the statues around him and the thousands of spectators, who,
crowded closely together, richly garlanded, their cheeks glowing with
enthusiasm, surrounded the arena.

"Hermon!" shouted his friend Soteles in joyful surprise in the midst
of this painful walk. "Hermon!" resounded here, there, and
everywhere as, leaning on his friend's arm, he stepped upon the stage,
and the acclamations grew louder and louder as Soteles fulfilled the
sculptor's request and led him to the front of the platform.

Obeying a sign from the director of the festival, the chorus, which had
just sung a hymn to the Muses, was silent.

Now the sculptor began to speak, and noisy applause thundered around him
as he concluded the well-chosen words of homage with which he offered
cordial congratulations to the estimable Euphranor, to whom the festival
was given; but the shouts soon ceased, for the audience had heard his
modest entreaty to be permitted to say a few words, concerning a personal
matter, to those who were his professional colleagues, as well as to the
others who had honoured him with their interest and, only too loudly,
with undeserved applause. The more closely what he had to say concerned
himself, the briefer he would make his story.

And, in fact, he did not long claim the attention of his hearers.
Clearly and curtly he stated how it had been possible to mistake
Mrytilus's work for his, how the Tennis goldsmith had dispelled his first
suspicion, and how vainly he had besought the priests of Demeter to be