Hermon had listened to every word in silence, labouring for
breath. He was transported as if by magic to the hour of his return from
Pelusium; he saw himself enter Myrtilus's studio and watch his friend
scratch something, he did not know what, upon the ribbon which fastened
the bunch of golden grain. It was--nay, it could have been nothing
else--that very spider. The honoured work was not his, but his dead
friend's. How the exchange had occurred he could not now understand,
but to disbelieve that it had taken place would have been madness or
self-deception.

Now he also understood the doubts of Soteles and the King. Not
he--Myrtilus, and he alone, was the creator of the much-lauded Demeter!

This conviction raised a hundred-pound weight from his soul.

What was applause! What was recognition! What were fame and laurel
wreaths! He desired clearness and truth for himself and all the world
and, as if frantic, he suddenly sprang from his cushions, shouting to
the startled guests: "I myself and this whole great city were deceived!
The Demeter is not mine, not the work of Hermon! The dead Myrtilus
created it!"

Then pressing his hand to his brow, he called his student friend to
his side, and, as the scholar anxiously laid his arm on his shoulder,
whispered: "Away, away from here! Only let me get out of doors into the
open air!"

Crates, bewildered and prepared for the worst, obeyed his wish; but
Althea and the other guests left behind felt more and more impressed by
the suddenly awakened conviction that the hapless blind man had now also
become the victim of madness.

CHAPTER VIII.

Without a word of explanation, Hermon dragged his guide along in
breathless haste. No one stopped them.

The atrium, usually swarming with guards, servants, and officials until
a far later hour, was completely deserted when the blind man hurried
through it with his friend.

The door leading into the outer air stood open, but Hermon, leaning on
the scholar's arm, had scarcely crossed the threshold and entered the
little courtyard encircled with ornamental plants, which separated this
portion of the palace from the street, when both were surrounded by a
band of armed Macedonian soldiers, whose commander exclaimed: "In the
name of the King! Not a sound, if you value your lives!"

Incensed, and believing that there was some mistake, Hermon announced
himself as a sculptor and Crates as a member of the Museum, but this
statement did n