He stated that his investigations had discovered nothing of importance, except, perhaps, the confirmation of the sorrowful apprehension that the admirable Myrtilus had been killed by the marauders.  A carved stone had been found under the ashes, and Chello, the Tennis goldsmith, said he had had in his own workshop the gem set in the hapless artist’s shoulder clasp, and supplied it with a new pin.

While speaking, he took Hermon’s hand and gave him the stone, but the artist instantly used his finger tips to feel it.

Perhaps it really did belong to the clasp Myrtilus wore, for, although still unpractised in groping, he recognised that a human head was carved in relief upon the stone, and Mrytilus’s had been adorned with the likeness of the Epicurean.

The damaged little work of art, in the opinion of Proclus and Daphne, appeared to represent this philosopher, and at the thought that his friend had fallen a victim to the flames Hermon bowed his head and exerted all his strength of will in order not to betray by violent sobs how deeply this idea pierced his heart.

Thyone, shrugging her shoulders mournfully, pointed to the suffering artist.  Proclus nodded significantly, and, moving nearer to Hermon, informed him that he had sought out his Demeter and found the statue uninjured.  He was well aware that it would be presumptuous to offer consolation in so heavy an affliction, and after the loss of his dearest friend, yet perhaps Hermon would be glad to hear his assurance that he, whose judgment was certainly not unpractised, numbered his work among the most perfect which the sculptor’s art had created in recent years.

“I myself best know the value of this Demeter,” the sculptor broke in harshly.  “Your praise is the bit of honey which is put into the mouth of the hurt child.”

“No, my friend,” Proclus protested with grave decision.  “I should express no less warmly the ardent admiration with which this noble figure of the goddess fills me if you were well and still possessed your sight.  You were right just now when you alluded to my aversion, or, let us say, lack of appreciation of the individuality of your art; but this noble work changes everything, and nothing affords me more pleasure than that I am to be the first to assure you how magnificently you have succeeded in this statue.”

“The first!” Hermon again interrupted harshly.  “But the second and third will be lacking in Alexandria.  What a pleasure it is to pour the gifts of sympathy upon one to whom we wish ill!  But, however successful my Demeter may be, you would have awarded the prize twice over to the one by Myrtilus.”

“Wrong, my young friend!” the statesman protested with honest zeal.  “All honour to the great dead, whose end was so lamentable; but in this contest—­let me swear it by the goddess herself!—­you would have remained victor; for, at the utmost, nothing can rank with the incomparable save a work of equal merit, and—­I know life and art—­two artists rarely or never succeed in producing anything so perfect as this masterpiece at the same time and in the same place.”