“Look again, beloved one,” said his father.
The boy bore again his fearful eyes to the faded yellow page. Slowly he spelt out the words and represented them to his mind. Then he paused and gathered himself to his full height. His chin was upheld, his hands were clenched, his eyes were closed, his slow-drawn breaths were audible. Quite suddenly the ineffable look of his father’s appeared in his face.
“Yes, yes, yes, I understand, I understand!” he muttered to himself. “My father,” he broke out with a wild little cry, “these must be the words of the first author in the world!”
He flung his arms about his father’s neck.
“How shall I ever requite thee, my father,” he cried, “for teaching me to read in a book such as this!”
“Is it not meet, O Achilles,” said his father, “that thou shouldst read in the book that the ages have wrought for their child?”
Like those of one entranced, the eyes of the boy sought the yellow page again and again. He spelt out the antique words of all that was there written, and pondered them with his finger raised to his lips. He then saluted the parchment devoutly, and again he knelt.
“I am indeed Achilles,” he cried; “the magic page of the gods is spread before me!”
“Wilt thou forswear thy birthright again, O Achilles?” said his father, whose eyes were quick with many tender, yet grave, questionings.
“Never, never, O my father,” cried the boy, “lest it should not be given to me to read in the Book of the Ages again!”