“I never looked to see her again, for when I turned to the Book of the Ages I found it written therein that I should not do so. But further it exhorted me to be jealous of my man-child, for it was written therein that he would be one of the great ones of the earth.
“And so hour by hour I went out to search the streets of the great city for that which had been born to me, but for many days my labour was vain. Yet once, as I returned at midnight from my fruitless search, dejected in mind and weary in limb, my feet touched a soft bundle that had been deposited upon the threshold of the shop. You, Achilles, were that bundle, but it has never been given to me to look again upon her that bore you.”
The young man listened to the story of his birth with the calm passiveness which is the crown of great knowledge. He yielded to none of the emotions that so strange a recital was likely to arouse. When it was at an end he said softly, “I think you have done well, my father, to defer the recital of my birth until I have entered upon my third phase. Much that had otherwise been dark now stands revealed.”
“I would cherish the assurance from your lips,” said the white-haired man, with a look piteous to behold, “that I have done well to reveal this history unto you. Canst you forgive, my brave son, the frail and blind agent of Destiny?”
With a swiftness of answer that caused the eyes of the old man to brim with tears, the young man took him to his bosom.
“This is indeed Achilles,” said the aged man, “this is indeed Achilles. And yet—and yet, although this is he whom I begot, it has not been given to me to write my page in the Book.”
“And should you fail to write your page in the Book, my father,” said the young man, “is it not that our dynasty is at an end?”
“It is written so,” said his father.
The young man stood with bowed head and close lips.
“I read your thought, valiant one,” said the old man, with a dull anguish in his eyes.