His breath came fast, and his hands trembled as he set to work; but soon his hand was as steady as ever, his eye was calm and keen again, and the work progressed.  The fine features of the young Bithynian were distinct to his mind’s eye, and when, about four hours after, his mother looked in at the window to see what Pollux was doing, whether her little stratagem had succeeded, she cried out with surprise, for the favorite’s bust, a likeness in every feature, stood on a plinth side by side with the original sketch.  Before she could cross the threshold her son had run to meet her, lifted her in his arms, and kissing her forehead and lips he exclaimed, radiant with delight: 

“Mother, I still can work.  Mother, mother, I am not lost!”

In the afternoon his brother came in and saw what he had been doing, and now—­and not till now—­could Teuker honestly be glad to have found his brother again.

While the two artists were sitting together, and the gem-cutter was suggesting to the sculptor, who had complained of the bad light in his parent’s house, that he should carry the statue to his master’s workshop —­which was much lighter—­to complete it, Euphorion had quietly gone to some remote corner of his provision-shed and brought to light an amphora full of noble Chian wine which had been given to him by a rich merchant, for whose wedding he had performed the part of Hymenaeus with a chorus of youths.  For twenty years had he still preserved this jar of wine for some specially happy occasion.  This jar and his best lute were the only objects which Euphorion had carried with his own hand from Lochias to his daughter’s house and then again to his own new abode.  With an air of dignified pride the singer set the old amphora before his sons, but Doris laid hands upon it at once and said: 

“I am glad to bestow the good gift upon you, and would willingly drink a cup of it with you; but a prudent general does not celebrate his triumph before he has won the battle.  As soon as the statue of the beautiful lad is completed, I myself, will wreathe this venerable jar with ivy, and beg you spare it to us, my dear old man—­but not before.”

“Mother is right,” said Pollux.  “And if the amphora is really destined for me, if you will allow it, my father shall not remove the pitch wig from its venerable head, till Arsinoe is mine once more!”

“That is well my boy,” cried Doris, “and then I will crown, not merely the jar but all of us too, with nothing but sweet roses.”

The next day Pollux, with his unfinished statue, removed to the workshop of his brother’s master.  The worthy man cleared the best place for the young sculptor, for he thought highly of him and wished to make good, as far as lay in his power, the injustice the poor fellow had suffered from the treachery of Papias.  Now, from sunrise till evening fell, Pollux was constant to his work.  He gave himself up to the resuscitated pleasure and power of creation