d his
hand, few of them dared to applaud, and their feeble voices were drowned
by a storm of hisses and groans from his opponents. He shrank back in
horror from so unusual a reception, and in an instant his blue-clad
rival was in his place. If he had sung badly before, his performance now
was inconceivable. His screams, his grunts, his discords, and harsh
jarring cacophonies were an outrage to the very name of music. And yet
every time that he paused for breath or to wipe his streaming forehead a
fresh thunder of applause came rolling back from the audience. Policles
sank his face in his hands and prayed that he might not be insane. Then,
when the dreadful performance ceased, and the uproar of admiration
showed that the crown was certainly awarded to this impostor, a horror
of the audience, a hatred of this race of fools, and a craving for the
peace and silence of the pastures mastered every feeling in his mind. He
dashed through the mass of people waiting at the wings, and emerged in
the open air. His old rival and friend Metas of Corinth was waiting
there with an anxious face.

"Quick, Policles, quick!" he cried. "My pony is tethered behind yonder
grove. A grey he is, with red trappings. Get you gone as hard as hoof
will bear you, for if you are taken you will have no easy death."

"No easy death! What mean you, Metas? Who is the fellow?"

"Great Jupiter! did you not know? Where have you lived? It is Nero the
Emperor! Never would he pardon what you have said about his voice.
Quick, man, quick, or the guards will be at your heels!"

* * * * *

An hour later the shepherd was well on his way to his mountain home, and
about the same time the Emperor, having received the Chaplet of Olympia
for the incomparable excellence of his performance, was making enquiries
with a frowning brow as to who the insolent person might be who had
dared to utter such contemptuous criticisms.

"Bring him to me here this instant," said he, "and let Marcus with his
knife and branding-iron be in attendance."

"If it please you, great Caesar," said Arsenius Platus, the officer of
attendance, "the man cannot be found, and there are some very strange
rumours flying about."

"Rumours!" cried the angry Nero. "What do you mean, Arsenius? I tell you
that the fellow was an ignorant upstart with the bearing of a boor and
the voice of a peacock. I tell you also that there are a good many who
are as guilty as he among