“By no means,” Myrtilus eagerly interrupted.  “What our statues of the gods are we two know best:  a wooden block, covered with gold and sheets of ivory.  But to tens of thousands the statue of the divinity must be much more.  When they raise their hearts, eyes, hands to it in prayer, they must be possessed by the idea of the deity which animated us while creating it, and with which we, as it were, permeated it.  If it shows them only a woman endowed with praiseworthy qualities—­”

“Then,” interrupted Hermon, “the worshipper should thank the sculptor; for is it not more profitable to him to be encouraged by the statue to emulate the human virtues whose successful embodiment it shows him than to strive for the aid of the botchwork of human hands, which possesses as much or as little power as the wood, gold, and ivory that compose it?  If the worshipper does not appeal to the statue, but to the goddess, I fear it will be no less futile.  So I shall consider it no blemish if you see in my Demeter a mortal woman, and no goddess; nay, it reconciles me in some degree to her weaknesses, to which I by no means close my eyes.  I, too—­I confess it—­often feel a great desire to give the power of imagination greater play, and I know the divinities in whom I have lost faith as well as any one; for I, too, was once a child, and few have ever prayed to them more fervently, but with the increasing impulse toward liberty came the perception:  There are no gods, and whoever bows to the power of the immortals makes himself a slave.  So what I banished from life I will also remove from art, and model nothing which might not meet me to-day or to-morrow.”

“Then, as an honest man, abstain altogether from making statues of the gods,” interrupted his friend.

“That was my intention long ago, as you are aware,” the other answered.

“You could not commit a worse robbery upon yourself,” cried Myrtilus.  “I know you; nay, perhaps I see farther into your soul than you yourself.  By ingenious fetters you force the mighty winged intellect to content itself within the narrow world of reality.  But the time when you will yourself rend the bonds and find the divinity you have lost, will come, and then, with your mighty power once more free, you will outstrip most of us, and me also if I live to see it.”

Then he pressed his hand upon his rattling chest and walked slowly to the couch; but Hermon followed, helped him to lie down, and with affectionate solicitude arranged his pillows.

“It is nothing,” Myrtilus said soothingly, after a few minutes’ silence.  “My undermined strength has been heavily taxed to-day.  The Olympians know how calmly I await death.  It ends all things.  Nothing will be left of me except the ashes, to which you will reduce my body, and what you call ‘possession.’  But even this can no longer belong to me after death, because I shall then be no more, and the idea of possession requires a possessor.  My estate, too, is now disposed of.  I have just been to the notary, and sixteen witnesses—­neither more nor less—­have signed my will according to the custom of this ceremonious country.  There, now, if you please, go before me, and let me stay here alone a little while.  Remember me to Daphne and the Pelusinians.  I will join you in an hour.”