“It is not to be!” he muttered.
The fire in the grate was still smouldering, and into this the boy’s father cast the contents of the chalice. Then with a religious care he cleansed each of the articles he had taken from the cupboard, and replaced them there.
“Is it that you cannot write in the book, my father?” asked the boy, whose lips were pale.
“Yes, beloved one, it is not yet given to me to write in the book,” said his father, with an expression of indescribable agony upon his face. “And yet my years are now beyond three score.”
“Is it that you have never written in the book, my father?” asked the boy in his consternation.
“I have never written in the book, Achilles,” said his father. “And I dare not measure the failures I have made.”
“Is it the book of the Fates, my father, in which every human person must write his destiny?” asked the boy.
“No, beloved one,” said his father. “It is not the book of the Fates. Only the bearers of our name can write in this book. And these have written in it for a thousand years past.”
“What is our name, my father?” said the boy. “I have been asked for it on several occasions by the persons in the streets.”
“Our name is William Jordan—yours and mine.”