The sound of the aged voice, as sorrowful as the autumn winds among the chimney-pots, caused the young man to lift his sunken eyes from the page upon which they lay.
“Is it, O my father,” he said, “that we are threatened with the most dire of all catastrophes?”
“Yes, my beloved,” said his father. “Indeed, the most dire of all catastrophes is consummated already. This is the morning of Monday. If—how shall I reveal it to thee, Achilles” (the anguish in the eyes of the old man was insupportable)—“if by Friday at noon we cannot obtain twenty pieces of gold for the price of our roof, we shall be driven forth of our little room, thou and I, beloved one, into the gross darkness of the streets of the great city.”
At first the young man’s mind was like a blank page, but all too soon it became susceptible to the words his father had uttered. “O my father!” he cried, “I have known these many days that Fate was devising some cruel and bloody trial for this craven’s heart.” And then, as a passionate horror swelled his veins, he cried, “This is the untold evil which all my life has lain upon my heart. I have such a bitter horror of the streets of the great city, my father, that I would prefer to embrace death.”
The face of the old man was like that of a corpse.
“Do I not know it, my beloved?” he said. “Was it not these loins that imbued this horror in thy tender veins? Yet Fate has spoken; only one thing remains unto us.”
“What is this thing, my father?”
“We can but pray for a miracle to happen.”
“Ah, my father,” said the young man in a hoarse, croaking whisper, “miracles do not happen.”
“The modern authors have declared it thus in their books,” said the white-haired man, his father, “but in the Book of the Ages is it not recorded otherwise?”