Yet, although the pain continued to torture him, and a voice in his soul told him that he was blinded, he did not allow the government officials who eagerly surrounded him to speak, only pointed hastily to his eyes, and then bade them enter Myrtilus’s studio.  The Egyptian Chello, the Tennis goldsmith, who had assisted the artists in the preparation of the noble metal, and one of the police officers who had been summoned to rid the old house of the rats and mice which infested it, both knew the way.

They must first try to save Myrtilus’s work and, when that was accomplished, preserve his also from destruction by the flames.

Leaning on the goldsmith’s arm, Hermon went to his friend’s studio; but before they reached it smoke and flames poured out so densely that it was impossible even to gain the door.

“Destroyed—­a prey to the flames!” he groaned.  “And he—­he—­he—­”

Then like a madman he asked if no one had seen Myrtilus, and where he was; but in vain, always in vain.

At last the goldsmith who was leading him asked him to move aside, for all who had flocked to the white house when it was seized by the flames had joined in the effort to save the statue of Demeter, which they had found unharmed in his studio.

Seventeen men, by the exertion of all their strength, were dragging the heavy statue from the house, which was almost on the point of falling in, into the square.  Several others were bearing corpses into the open air-the old porter Snuphis and Myrtilus’s body servant.  Some motionless forms they were obliged to leave behind.  Both the bodies had deep wounds.  There was no trace of Myrtilus and Bias.

Outside the storm had subsided, and a cool breeze blew refreshingly into Hermon’s face.  As he walked arm in arm with the notary Melampus, who had invited him to his house, and heard some one at his side exclaim, “How lavishly Eos is scattering her roses to-day!” he involuntarily lifted the cloth with which he had covered his smarting face to enjoy the beautiful flush of dawn, but again beheld nothing save a black and violet-blue surface.

Then drawing his hand from his guide’s arm, he pressed it upon his poor, sightless, burning eyes, and in helpless rage, like a beast of prey which feels the teeth of the hunter’s iron trap rend his flesh, groaned fiercely, “Blind! blind!” and again, and yet again, “Blind!”

While the morning star was still paling, the lad who after Hermon’s landing had raced along the shore with the burning torch glided into the little pronaos of the Temple of Nemesis.

Ledscha was still standing by the doorpost of the cella with uplifted hand, so deeply absorbed in fervent prayer that she did not perceive the approach of the messenger until he called her.

“Succeeded?” she asked in a muffled tone, interrupting his hasty greeting.

“You must give the goddess what you vowed,” was the reply.  “Hanno sends you the message.  And also, ’You must come with me in the boat quickly-at once!’”