When, accompanied by Philippus, Hermon reached his house, it was so late that the artists’ festival in honour of the sculptor Euphranor, who entered his seventieth year of life that day, must have already commenced.

On the way the blind man told the general what a severe trial awaited him, and the latter approved his course and, on bidding him farewell, with sincere emotion urged Hermon to take courage.

After hastily strengthening himself with a few mouthfuls of food and a draught of wine, his slave Patran, who understood writing, wished to put on the full laurel wreath; but Hermon was seized with a painful sense of dissatisfaction, and angrily waved it back.

Without a single green leaf on his head, he walked, leaning on the Egyptian’s arm, into the palaestra, which was diagonally opposite to his house.

Doubtless he longed to hasten at once to Daphne, but he felt that he could not take leave of her until he had first cast off, as his heart and mind dictated, the terrible burden which oppressed his soul.  Besides, he knew that the object of his love would not part from him without granting him one last word.

On the way his heart throbbed almost to bursting.

Even Daphne’s image, and what threatened her father, and her with him, receded far into the background.  He could think only of his design, and how he was to execute it.

Yet ought he not to have the laurel wreath put on, in order, after removing it, to bestow it on the genius of Myrtilus?

Yet no!

Did he still possess the right to award this noble branch to any one?  He was appearing before his companions only to give truth its just due.  It was repulsive to endow this explanation of an unfortunate error with a captivating aspect by any theatrical adornment.  To be honest, even for the porter, was a simple requirement of duty, and no praiseworthy merit.

The guide forced a path for him through carriages, litters, and whole throngs of slaves and common people, who had assembled before the neighbouring palaestra.

The doorkeepers admitted the blind man, who was well known here, without delay; but he called to the slave:  “Quick, Patran, and not among the spectators—­in the centre of the arena!”

The Egyptian obeyed, and his master crossed the wide space, strewn with sand, and approached the stage which had been erected for the festal performances.

Even had his eyes retained the power of sight, his blood was coursing so wildly through his veins that he might perhaps have been unable to distinguish the statues around him and the thousands of spectators, who, crowded closely together, richly garlanded, their cheeks glowing with enthusiasm, surrounded the arena.

“Hermon!” shouted his friend Soteles in joyful surprise in the midst of this painful walk.  “Hermon!” resounded here, there, and everywhere as, leaning on his friend’s arm, he stepped upon the stage, and the acclamations grew louder and louder as Soteles fulfilled the sculptor’s request and led him to the front of the platform.