of Elis, beloved of Jupiter, in which they were gathered that day, of
the great bare mountain slopes, of the swift shadows of the clouds, of
the winding blue river, of the keen air of the uplands, of the chill of
the evenings, and the beauties of earth and sky. It was all simple and
childlike, but it went to the hearts of the Olympians, for it spoke of
the land which they knew and loved. Yet when he at last dropped 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 cacophanies 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