n her hand a bundle of wheat, and even in attitude
did not differ very widely from his own. And yet--eternal gods!--how
thoroughly dissimilar the two were!

In the figure created by Myrtilus, supernatural dignity blended with
the utmost womanly charm; in his, a pleasing head rested upon a body
in whose formation he had used various models without striving to
accomplish anything except to depart as far as possible from established
custom, with which he was at variance.

Yet had he not found himself, nevertheless, compelled to follow the old
rules? One arm was raised, the other hung down; the right foot was put
forward, the left one back.

Exactly the same as in Myrtilus's statue, and thousands of other figures
of Demeter!

If he could have used the hammer and chisel, the thing might have become
more powerful; but how many things he had had to consider in employing
the accursed gold and ivory upon which Archias obstinately insisted!

This hammering, chipping, and filing told unfavourably upon his power
and his aspiration toward grandeur.

This time the battle seemed to be lost.

It was fortunate that the conqueror was no other than Myrtilus. Often
as he had gone astray in his young life, many as were the errors he had
committed, not even the faintest shadow of an envious feeling concerning
his friend's more successful work had ever stained his soul.

True, the fact that fate, in addition to such abundant gifts of mind
and spirit, had also endowed the latter with great worldly possessions,
while he, but for the generosity of his uncle Archias, must have
starved, had often led Hermon to inveigh angrily against the injustice
of the gods. Yet he did not grudge Myrtilus the wealth without which he
could not imagine him, and which his invalid friend needed to continue
successfully the struggle against the insidious disease inherited with
the gold. And his sufferings! Hermon could not have endured keener pain
had they been his own. He must even rejoice over the poor dear fellow's
victory; for if he, Hermon, succeeded with his Arachne as he hoped, it
would make Myrtilus--he could swear to it--happier than his own triumph.

After these reflections, which again reminded him of the second
appointment and of Ledscha, the sculptor turned away from his work and
went to the window to look across at Pelican Island, where she must not
await him in vain.

The boat which was to convey him over to it lay ready in the little
floti