“It is as seemly, O my father,” the poet answered, “as it is to pluck the ripe fruit from the stalk.”
It was therefore in no mood of passion, of wild soul-searching, that the old man yielded those magic parchments which for a thousand years had been as the archives of his race. He bowed to the decree of fate with that calm acceptancy which, in the end, had ever been the crown that awaited each individual destiny.
Yet, when this volume, which was a thousand years old, had passed for ever from the precincts of the little room, he did not reveal the marvellous circumstance to him who was blind.
However, in the evening of that day, the poet said, as if armed by a prophetic vision, “My father, why dost thou turn no more to the Book of the Ages?”
The old man took the poet’s fragile hand to his lips with a humble gesture of obeisance.
“Because, O Achilles,” he said, “is it not seemly, since thou thyself wouldst have it so, that when the ripe fruit is plucked the stalk shall be discarded?”
“Verily, my father, thy wisdom is commendable,” said the poet, speaking in the perfect simplicity of the blood royal.
LIII
After the Book of the Ages had been dispersed among the great world out of doors, many were the days that elapsed ere the dying poet’s faithful emissary was seen again in the little room. The old man was thrown into a fever of dread lest so strange an envoy should never return; but even in the extremity of his fears he was consoled by the noble courage of the poet. From day to day he who kept the chimney-side, and whose hours could be numbered as they passed, retained a superhuman serenity throughout the whole of this cruel period, which seemed to gnaw at the vitals of both. In his invincible fortitude he even sought to assuage the distress of the aged man, his father.
“He will never return, O Achilles,” wailed the old man.