“Our honest servant will not fail one who is the comrade of kingly death, O my father,” said the blind poet, smiling in his faith. “Must I pray for a miracle, Achilles?” said the old man, who looked to him in all things now. “We would have thee be of good faith, my father,” said the poet. “Never yet was a destiny but that it fulfilled itself. The printing-presses are groaning under these pages of ours. To-morrow they will be strown like autumn leaves all about the floor of this little room.” Yet the morrow came and the emissary did not return. Another morrow dawned and yet he came not. Day succeeded day; the dying poet became as one who has scarce the strength to raise his limbs; the sands grew less and less in the glass; yet still no breathless messenger issued forth from the streets of the great city. In this long-drawn suspense such an anguish of despair besieged the old man, that again and again he turned to the poet for the sustenance which it was his to give. “Be of good courage, O my father,” said the dying poet, yet at this time the whole of his right side was become paralyzed, so that he could no longer raise his right hand. After listening full many weary nights and days for the ever-expected tap upon the shutters of the shop, there came at last the familiar sound in a December evening. With unsteady limbs the old man went forth to unbar the door. Upon the threshold stood Dodson, worn and pale. “Do not tell me the miracle has not happened,” cried the old man in a high, quavering tone. “Yes, the miracle has happened,” said Dodson in a voice that was thin and unstrung. “And--and they have printed the mighty pages?” cried the old man. “Yes,” said Dodson, “they are printing the cursed pages. I have the proofs of the first volume under my coat. The others will be through the press in a few days.” The old man gave a cry of joy. “Then the miracle has happened for the second time,” he said. “The Book of the Ages was cherished by the world of men.” “Call it what you like,” said Dodson. “Call it a miracle, call it a business transaction, or call it a daylight robbery, or anything you please. I can only say that James Dodson had to scour heaven and earth to get that miserable two hundred pounds. I lied to the dealer; I drew up a false pedigree for those infernal pages of parchments; I cajoled them into believing that black was white; I proved to their satisfaction that that cursed writing in red ink was that of the Pharaohs, and was supposed to be indelible, because, do what they would with their chemicals, they could not get it to come off.” “Oh yes, yes,” said the old man, breathing heavily. “I should have made it known to you that the writing in the Book of the Ages can never be effaced.”