He could permit the beautiful daughter of the honoured Archias to remain with Hermon for half an hour, then he must beg her to allow herself to be escorted to her home, as the barracks were closed at that time.

As soon as the captive artist was alone with the woman he loved, he clasped her hand, pouring forth incoherent words of the most ardent gratitude, and when he felt her warmly return the pressure, he could not restrain the desire to clasp her to his heart.  For the first time his lips met hers, he confessed his love, and that he had just regarded death as a deliverer; but his life was now gaining new charm through her affection.

Then Daphne herself threw her arms around his neck with fervent devotion.

The love that resistlessly drew his heart to her was returned with equal strength and ardour.  In spite of his deep mental distress, he could have shouted aloud in his delight and gratitude.  He might now have been permitted to bind forever to his life the woman who had just rescued him from the greatest danger, but the confession he must make to his fellow-artists in the palaestra the following morning still sealed his lips.  Yet in this hour he felt that he was united to her, and ought not to conceal what awaited him; so, obeying a strong impulse, he exclaimed:  “You know that I love you!  Words can not express the strength of my devotion, but for that very reason I must do what duty commands before I ask the question, ‘Will you join your fate to mine?’”

“I love you and have loved you always!” Daphne exclaimed tenderly.  “What more is needed?”

But Hermon, with drooping head, murmured:  “To-morrow I shall no longer be what I am now.  Wait until I have done what duty enjoins; when that is accomplished, you shall ask yourself what worth the blind artist still possesses who bartered spurious fame for mockery and disgrace in order not to become a hypocrite.”

Then Daphne raised her face to his, asking, “So the Demeter is the work of Myrtilus?”

“Certainly,” he answered firmly.  “It is the work of Myrtilus.”

“Oh, my poor, deceived love!” cried Daphne, strongly agitated, in a tone of the deepest sorrow.  “What a terrible ordeal again awaits you!  It must indeed distress me—­and yet Do not misunderstand me!  It seems nevertheless as if I ought to rejoice, for you and your art have not spoken to me even a single moment from this much-lauded work.”

“And therefore,” he interrupted with passionate delight, “therefore alone you withheld the enthusiastic praise with which the others intoxicated me?  And I, fool, blinded also in mind, could be vexed with you for it!  But only wait, wait!  Soon-to-morrow even—­there will be no one in Alexandria who can accuse me of deserting my own honest aspiration, and, if the gods will only restore my sight and the ability to use my hands as a sculptor, then, girl, then—­”

Here he was interrupted by a loud knocking at the door.