Suddenly an idea came to him, which at first he rejected as inconceivable; but it would not allow itself to be thrust aside, and its consideration made his breath fail.

What if his own Demeter had been destroyed and Myrtilus’s statue saved?  If the latter was falsely believed to be his work, then Proclus’s judgment was explained—­then—­then—–­

Seized by a torturing anguish, he groaned aloud, and the steward Gras inquired what he wanted.

Hermon hastily grasped the Bithynian’s arm, and asked what he knew about the rescue of his statue.

The answer was by no means satisfying.  Gras had only heard that, after being found uninjured in his studio, it had been dragged with great exertion into the open air.  The goldsmith Chello had directed the work.

Hermon remembered all this himself, yet, with an imperious curtness in marked contrast to his usual pleasant manner to this worthy servant, he hoarsely commanded him to bring Chello to him early the next morning, and then again relapsed into his solitary meditations.

If the terrible conjecture which had just entered his mind should be confirmed, no course remained save to extinguish the only new light which now illumined the darkness of his night, or to become a cheat.

Yet his resolution was instantly formed.  If the goldsmith corroborated his fear, he would publicly attribute the rescued work to the man who created it.  And he persisted in this intention, indignantly silencing the secret voice which strove to shake it.  It temptingly urged that Myrtilus, so rich in successes, needed no new garland.  His lost sight would permit him, Hermon, from reaping fresh laurels, and his friend would so gladly bestow this one upon him.  But he angrily closed his ears to these enticements, and felt it a humiliation that they dared to approach him.

With proud self-reliance he threw back his head, saying to himself that, though Myrtilus should permit him ten times over to deck him self with his feathers, he would reject them.  He would remain himself, and was conscious of possessing powers which perhaps surpassed his friend’s.  He was as well qualified to create a genuine work of art as the best sculptor, only hitherto the Muse had denied him success in awakening pleasure, and blindness would put an end to creating anything of his own.

The more vividly he recalled to memory his own work and his friend’s, the more probable appeared his disquieting supposition.

He also saw Myrtilus’s figure before him, and in imagination heard his friend again promise that, with the Arachne, he would wrest the prize even from him.

During the terrible events of the last hours he had thought but seldom and briefly of the weaver, whom it had seemed a rare piece of good fortune to be permitted to represent.  Now the remembrance of her took possession of his soul with fresh power.