ilent.

Now the sculptor began to speak, and noisy applause thundered around him
as he concluded the well-chosen words of homage with which he offered
cordial congratulations to the estimable Euphranor, to whom the festival
was given; but the shouts soon ceased, for the audience had heard
his modest entreaty to be permitted to say a few words, concerning a
personal matter, to those who were his professional colleagues, as well
as to the others who had honoured him with their interest and, only too
loudly, with undeserved applause. The more closely what he had to say
concerned himself, the briefer he would make his story.

And, in fact, he did not long claim the attention of his hearers.
Clearly and curtly he stated how it had been possible to mistake
Mrytilus's work for his, how the Tennis goldsmith had dispelled his
first suspicion, and how vainly he had besought the priests of Demeter
to be permitted to feel his statue. Then, without entering into details,
he informed them that, through an accident, he had now reached the firm
conviction that he had long worn wreaths which belonged to another. But,
though the latter could not rise from the grave, he still owed it to
truth, to whose service he had dedicated his art from the beginning,
and to the simple honesty, dear alike to the peasant and the artist, to
divest himself of the fame to which he was not entitled. Even while he
believed himself to be the creator of the Demeter, he had been seriously
troubled by the praise of so many critics, because it had exposed him to
the suspicion of having become faithless to his art and his nature. In
the name of the dead, he thanked his dear comrades for the enthusiastic
appreciation his masterpiece had found. Honour to Myrtilus and his
art, but he trusted this noble festal assemblage would pardon the
unintentional deception, and aid his prayer for recovery. If it should
be granted he hoped to show that Hermon had not been wholly unworthy to
adorn himself for a short time with the wreaths of Myrtilus.

When he closed, deep silence reigned for a brief interval, and one man
looked at another irresolutely until the hero of the day, gray-haired
Euphranor, rose and, leaning on the arm of his favourite pupil, walked
through the centre of the arena to the stage, mounted it, embraced
Hermon with paternal warmth, and made him happy by the words: "The
deception that has fallen to your lot, my poor young friend, is a
lamentable one; but hon