No, miracles did not happen to those like himself. On the evening of the Wednesday in that fatal week he felt he could not return to the little room to stretch his faint resolution once more upon the rack. Therefore he wandered aimlessly up and down the streets of the great city. And in the course of his wanderings he came at last to the river. As he came to the quiet bridge on which the lamps were flickering through the chill, rainy darkness, the Thames at full tide gurgled beneath. Gazing down at these stealthy, all-effacing waters, an irresistible impulse overcame him. It became essential that one who was less than nothing should return to nothingness. By what right did such impotence breathe the noble mountain airs of Olympus? The sun, the rain, the sweet earth, the clement skies were for those who could outface the tempest. The dreadful dark water, which he feared so much, was drawing him. It was exercising an occult power upon him. 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.