The boy was unfailing in his attendance at the school. Every morning at the same hour he went forth in his father’s care; at the same hour every evening he returned in the same vigilant custody. Days grew into weeks, weeks grew into months, months into years, but the intimacy of time, and increase in stature and understanding opened up no intercourse with the other boys in the school. He still remained one apart at the master’s table. The contemptuous disfavour with which he was viewed upon his first entrance into their midst grew into a tradition which all respected, so that even those who came after him, who were his inferiors in years and stature and knowledge of books, were only too eager to accept the verdict which had been passed upon him. By this pious conformity they gained the freedom of their own republic. As the boy grew older his reading in the ancient authors became more prolonged, more profound, and more various. The longer he spent at his books, the more authors with whom he entered into an acquaintance, the more was his curiosity inspired. The questions he put to his father in the little room increased greatly in number and magnitude. Some were so delicate that his father, although familiar with many authors in many tongues, was fain to hesitate in his replies; yet, whenever he was able, he would give an answer that was tempered, not to his own experience, but to that of his questioner. One evening, when the boy had been nearly two years at the school, he asked his father, who observed that his eyes were much swollen with tears recently shed, “When pain hurts us bitterly, my father, must we still continue to praise the Most High?” “Pain is a monitor whose zeal is sometimes a little excessive, beloved one,” said his father. “Is it our own incontinence, my father, that makes our fear so great? There seems to be two opinions among these authors.” “When nature is affronted,” said his father, “she utters protests that all must heed. The wise do not shun her indignation, neither do they court it; but, when they come to suffer it, they seek first for the cause, and then for that which may remove it.” “And having found the cause, my father, and also that which may remove it, must they ever shrink from the task?” “Never, Achilles,” said his father. The boy rose from his chair at the table. His face was like death. “Do you mind kneeling with me here, my father?” he said. “I seem to do better when you are at my side.” The boy and his father knelt together in the little room. All that long night the boy never closed his eyes. He lay on his pillow looking at the brightness of the stars. After a while he tossed restlessly from side to side. His lips were parched; his cheeks burned; his mind had an intolerable vivacity.