Ever smiling in the same manner, the dying poet then extended the fragile hand again, this time towards the astonished Jimmy Dodson, whose every faculty seemed to be atrophied by so strange a situation. “We would have thee also make obeisance, faithful servant,” said the poet gently. “It is not for this insignificant flesh that we seek thy homage; it is not to appease an unworthy pride, which too often devours princes, that we would crave thy vassalage. Rather it is that we would have all who are gentle and simple offer their devotion to that which alone makes the life of man comprehensible, of which this broken clay is the too frail custodian.” With a shamefaced trepidation, which only recently he had been taught to feel, James Dodson sank to his knees before his dying friend, and, in the fashion of the white-haired old man, he bore the fragile hand to his lips. He then rose, and, without venturing to give a look to either of the occupants of the little room, he made a headlong flight through the shop into the all-enfolding, ever-welcome darkness of the streets. LII The poet and his father passed that night together, as they had passed so many others, in the little room. The blind man, seated by the fire, alternately dreamed and mused, while his father conned the book which was spread open on the table. For the last time he conned it with the blood like water in his veins. Yet in him now was the mute acceptance of those who have passed through the whole gamut of their suffering, upon whom experience has nothing more to confer. In the dead of the night, while the dying poet was murmuring strange words in his sleep, the old man took for the last time from their receptacle the chalice, the bistoury and the stylus. A hundred times had his flesh been pierced in vain by that inexorable point, yet again this night he made trial of it, and for the last time. And now his trial was not without reward. No sooner had he dipped the stylus in the red blood of his veins than it began to traverse the page. For the first time since those fingers had grasped the pen, the fruit of eighty years of vicissitude upon the wonderful earth flowed to the parchment. Line by line grew the writing. That which he had laboured these long years to express, that for which he had prayed, fasted and kept vigil, was now born without a pang in this brief but magic hour. Faint with joy, yet also filled with a nameless fear, the old man addressed the poet as soon as he awoke. “Achilles,” he said, “wilt thou write thy page in the Book of the Ages, in order that our dynasty may continue itself?”