Almost involuntarily, almost without realizing his act, he began to climb out on to the parapet of the bridge. There was a faint vision of his aged father at the back of his thoughts, but now the rudderless vessel was caught by the forces of nature.
As with a mechanical reluctance his feet left the pavement of the bridge, the sight of the water caused him to shiver dismally. But the magnetism lurking in its dark, yet lustrous surface, was a hundred times more powerful than that will which was so inert in his flesh. It was ordained, however, that his feet should not descend to the parapet. For as they were still poised in mid-air, the first stroke of the hour came booming across the way from the cathedral.
It was a calm voice, before which even the darkness seemed to yield. In the same involuntary fashion in which he had climbed out on to the parapet, he returned to the security of the pavement. The sense of his destiny had been restored to him. He was again Achilles. Shuddering in every vein, he staggered through the mire of the roadway to the precincts of the national Valhalla, in which reposed the souls of heroes.
As in the days of his childhood he crept into this great cathedral. Again were his temples pressed to the chill flags; again he panted like a hunted deer. As he lay prostrate upon the stones of the sanctuary, a voice, lurking amid the dim columns, addressed him. “Zeus,” it said, “will give us immortal ones the strength to fulfil our destiny.”
It was late at night when the frail and haggard figure returned again to the little room. The aged man, his father, was still sitting at the table, with his faint eyes perusing the magic pages in which his profound faith was expressed.
“I will look at the page again, my father,” said the young man, whose heart was no longer as water in his flesh.
To his infinite joy he saw that the writing, which formerly had not been apparent to his eyes, had now gained a visible embodiment.
“My eyes have grown bright again, my father,” he cried. “And see, it is here written that if a miracle be desired, such as wish it must go forth personally in quest thereof.”
“It is not wholly thus that I construe the page, O Achilles,” said his father simply; “but then my eyes are those of one who is old.”
“One day only is left to us now, my father,” said the young man. “And although my fibres are as bread, to-morrow, come what may, I will go out to seek for the miracle.”