permitted to feel his statue. Then, without entering into details, he
informed them that, through an accident, he had now reached the firm
conviction that he had long worn wreaths which belonged to another.
But, though the latter could not rise from the grave, he still owed it
to truth, to whose service he had dedicated his art from the beginning,
and to the simple honesty, dear alike to the peasant and the artist, to
divest himself of the fame to which he was not entitled. Even while he
believed himself to be the creator of the Demeter, he had been seriously
troubled by the praise of so many critics, because it had exposed him to
the suspicion of having become faithless to his art and his nature. In
the name of the dead, he thanked his dear comrades for the enthusiastic
appreciation his masterpiece had found. Honour to Myrtilus and his art,
but he trusted this noble festal assemblage would pardon the
unintentional deception, and aid his prayer for recovery. If it should
be granted he hoped to show that Hermon had not been wholly unworthy to
adorn himself for a short time with the wreaths of Myrtilus.

When he closed, deep silence reigned for a brief interval, and one man
looked at another irresolutely until the hero of the day, gray-haired
Euphranor, rose and, leaning on the arm of his favourite pupil, walked
through the centre of the arena to the stage, mounted it, embraced Hermon
with paternal warmth, and made him happy by the words: "The deception
that has fallen to your lot, my poor young friend, is a lamentable one;
but honour to every one who honestly means to uphold the truth. We will
beseech the immortals with prayers and sacrifices to restore sight to
your artist eyes. If I am permitted, my dear young comrade, to see you
continue to create, it will be a source of joy to me and all of us; yet
the Muses, even though unasked, lead into the eternal realm of beauty the
elect who consecrates his art to truth with the right earnestness."