He dipped the pen in the red fluid; he poised it over the page. For a long time he maintained this attitude, yet not a mark of any kind did the fingers trace on the vellum. At last with a gesture of profound anguish, which filled the youthful witness with terror, he rose, and a kind of moan came from his lips. “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.” “William Jordan, William Jordan,” repeated the boy softly. A look of strange disappointment crept into his face. “William Jordan!” he said, “William Jordan!” “What’s in a name, beloved one?” said his father, with his secret and beautiful smile. Under his father’s patient eyes the look of strange disappointment passed from the boy’s face. “And each bearer of our name, my father, must write in this book?” said the boy. “It is so decreed,” said his father. “And for a thousand years past each of our dynasty has done so, with the exception, Achilles, of you and me.” The boy’s heart began to beat wildly. “Then I, too, must write in it, my father?” As he spoke the frail and gaunt form shook like gossamer. “We can but fulfil our destiny, beloved one,” said the boy’s father. “And it is written that when a bearer of our name ceases to write in the Book of the Ages our dynasty is at an end.” IX One day the boy discovered that a small brown volume, the Phaedo of Plato, had disappeared from one of the shelves in the shop. “I bartered it yesterday, beloved one, in exchange for seven shillings and sixpence in silver,” said his father in reply to his inquiries. This unexpected and disconcerting answer made many anxious questions necessary. “Why, my father, for what reason?” said the boy. “In order to provide the means of life, beloved one,” said his father. “The means of life, my father?” said the boy.