“No, no, my father,” he cried wildly, “I am not fit to read in the book until I have the strength to bear it in my arms.” Totally vanquished in mind and body, he crept up the dark stairs to his room. Without sufficient strength to remove his clothes he flung himself down, burying his eyes in the pillows of the bed; and the next day being Sunday, he slept deeply, dreamlessly, with entire abandonment until six o’clock in the evening. He was awakened by the metallic tinkling of bells. When he awoke and walked down the stairs into the little room it seemed that a pall had been lifted from his spirit. He discovered his father to be reading in the mighty tome. “First I will eat, my father,” he said, “and then I will try again.” His father replaced the great book upon the shelf, and then set before him a basin of food he had prepared with his own hands. “There is flesh in it,” said the boy, making a gesture of repugnance. “It may enable you, Achilles, to raise the book from the shelf,” said his father. It cost the boy infinite distress to swallow the gross food, but he did so at last. For now he felt strong in mind and body, owing to the wonderful refreshment of sleep. And having supped more resolutely than for many weeks past, he said, “And now, my father, if it is the will of the Most High I will bear the great volume in my hands.” To his unspeakable joy the power was rendered to him to lift it from the shelf. He placed it upon the table, and unlocked it with a curious key his father gave him. “Perhaps it were well to invoke the Most High, my father,” he said, “that my eyes may prove faithful unto me.” They knelt together in the little room. The boy opened the volume at the first page of vellum. He could scarcely breathe because of the beating of his heart. Yet the faded red characters, a thousand years old, proved beyond the power of his understanding. His learning was such that it could comprehend the curious words that they formed; it could surmount the antique spelling; but when with consummate skill he had rendered what was there written into strange phrases, they bodied forth no meaning. “Oh, my father, what is this?” he cried in consternation. “I see, but I do not heed; I behold, but I do not understand.” The tragic hue of his countenance grew deeper. “I beseech thee, gentle-hearted One,” he cried aloud, “do not make me also the sport of the Most High!” “Patience, Achilles,” said his father, with a smile of strange beauty. His father himself turned over the crinkling parchments of the massive volume. He turned to a middle page in the strange old book, and ever smiling softly, placed his finger upon a particular passage. “Look again, beloved one,” said his father.