The hapless artist had grown pale, it is true, in durance vile, but neither leaner nor enfeebled in body; on the other hand all the vigor of his intellect, all his bright courage for life and his happy creative instinct, seemed altogether crushed out of him.  His face, as in his dirty and ragged chiton, he journeyed from Canopus to Alexandria, revealed neither eager thankfulness for the unexpected boon of liberty, nor happiness at the prospect of seeing again his own people and Arsinoe.

In the town he went, unintelligently dreaming as he walked, from one street to another, but he was familiar with every stone of the way, and his feet found their way to his sister’s house.  How happy was Diotima, how her children rejoiced, how impatient was each one to conduct him to the old folks!  How high in the air the Graces frisked and leaped in front of the new little home to welcome the returned absentee!  And Doris, poor Doris, almost fainted with joyful surprise and her husband had to support her in his arms when her long vanished son, whom she had never given up for lost, however, suddenly stood before her and said:  “Here am I.”  How fondly she kissed and caressed her dear, cruel, restored fugitive.  The singer too loudly expressed his joy alike in verse and in prose, and fetched his best theatrical dress out of the chest to put it on his son in the place of his ragged chiton.

A mighty torrent of curses and execrations flowed from the old man’s lips as Pollux told his story.  The sculptor found it difficult to bring it to an end, for his father interrupted him at every word, and all the while he was talking his mother forced him to eat and drink incessantly, even when he could no more.  After he had assured her that he was long since replete, she pushed two more pots on to the fire, for he must have been half-starved in prison, and what he did not want now he would find room for two hours hence.  Euphorion himself conducted Pollux to the bath in the evening, and as they went home together he never for an instant left his side; the sense of being near him did him good and was like some comfortable physical sensation.

The singer was not usually inquisitive, but on this occasion he never ceased asking questions till Doris led her son to the bed she had freshly made for him.  After the artist had gone to rest, the old woman once more slipped into his room, kissed his forehead, and said: 

“To-day you have still been thinking too much of that hideous prison—­but to-morrow my boy, to-morrow you will be the same as before, will you not?”

“Only leave me alone mother; I shall soon be better,” he replied.  “This bed is as good as a sleeping-draught; the plank in the prison was quite a different thing.”

“You have never asked once for your Arsinoe,” said Doris.

“What can she matter to me?  Only let me sleep.”  But the next morning Pollux was just the same as he had been the previous evening, and as the days went on his condition remained unchanged.  His head drooped on his breast, he never spoke but when he was spoken to, and when Doris or Euphorion tried to talk to him of the future, he would ask:  “Am I a burden to you?” or begged them not to worry him.