name of the King! Not a sound, if you value your lives!"

Incensed, and believing that there was some mistake, Hermon announced
himself as a sculptor and Crates as a member of the Museum, but this
statement did not produce the slightest effect upon the warrior; nay,
when the friends answered the officer's inquiry whether they were coming
from Proclus's banquet in the affirmative; he curtly commanded them to be
put in chains.

To offer resistance would have been madness, for even Hermon perceived,
by the loud clanking of weapons around them, the greatly superior power
of the enemy, and they were acting by the orders of the King. "To the
prison near the place of execution!" cried the officer; and now not only
the mythograph, but Hermon also was startled--this dungeon opened only to
those sentenced to death.

Was he to be led to the executioner's block? A cold shudder ran through
his frame; but the next moment he threw back his waving locks, and his
chest heaved with a long breath.

What pleasure had life to offer him, the blind man, who was already dead
to his art? Ought he not to greet this sudden end as a boon from the
immortals?

Did it not spare him a humiliation as great and painful as could be
imagined?

He had already taken care that the false renown should not follow him
to the grave, and Myrtilus should have his just due, and he would do
whatever else lay in his power to further this object. Wherever the