e had a special room opened for the sculptor and
his fair guide, and ordered Crates to enter another.

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