from a Greek audience. This was evidently some
wonderful performer whose reputation had preceded him. Policles settled
down, therefore, and prepared to give his soul up to the music.

The blue-clad player struck several chords upon his lyre, and then
burst suddenly out into the "Ode of Niobe." Policles sat straight up on
his bench and gazed at the stage in amazement. The tune demanded a rapid
transition from a low note to a high, and had been purposely chosen for
this reason. The low note was a grunting, a rumble, the deep discordant
growling of an ill-conditioned dog. Then suddenly the singer threw up
his face, straightened his tubby figure, rose upon his tiptoes, and with
wagging head and scarlet cheeks emitted such a howl as the same dog
might have given had his growl been checked by a kick from his master.
All the while the lyre twanged and thrummed, sometimes in front of and
sometimes behind the voice of the singer. But what amazed Policles most
of all was the effect of this performance upon the audience. Every Greek
was a trained critic, and as unsparing in his hisses as he was lavish in
his applause. Many a singer far better than this absurd fop had been
driven amid execration and abuse from the platform. But now, as the man
stopped and wiped the abundant sweat from his fat face, the whole
assembly burst into a delirium of appreciation. The shepherd held his
hands to his bursting head, and felt that his reason must be leaving
him. It was surely a dreadful musical nightmare, and he would wake soon
and laugh at the remembrance. But no; the figures were real, the faces
were those of his neighbours, the cheers which resounded in his ears
were indeed from an audience which filled the theatre of Olympia. The
whole chorus was in full blast, the hummers humming, the shouters
bellowing, the tappers hard at work upon the benches, while every now
and then came a musical cyclone of "Incomparable! Divine!" from the
trained phalanx who intoned their applause, their united voices sweeping
over the tumult as the drone of the wind dominates the roar of the sea.
It was madness--insufferable madness! If this were allowed to pass,
there was an end of all musical justice in Greece. Policles' conscience
would not permit him to be still. Standing upon his bench with waving
hands and up-raised voice, he protested with all the strength of his
lungs against the mad judgment of the audience.

At first, amid the tumult, his action was hardl