It struck me that his temper for the moment was not under perfect control.
Isabel cast at me a look which I could not interpret, and went slowly back to the house.
"The meaning of my catechism just now," said her father, addressing me after listening for awhile to her retreating footsteps, "may be the plainer when I tell you that I am translating the works of the Roman poet Virgil, line for line, into English verse, and have just reached the beginning of the Fourth Georgic.

He is, I may tell you, a poet, and the most marvellous that ever lived; so marvellous, that the middle ages mistook him for a magician.

That any age is likely to mistake me--his translator--for a conjuror I think improbable.
Nevertheless I do my best.

And while translating I hold this book in my hand, not that I can see to read a line of it, but because the mere touch of it, my companion on many campaigns, seems to unloose my memory.

Except in handling this small volume, I have none of the delicate gift of touch with which blind men are usually credited.
But this is page 106, is it not ?" He held out the open book towards me, and added, with sudden apprehension, "You can read, I trust ?" I assured him that I could.
"And write?
Good again! Come in--you will find pen, ink, and paper on the side-drum in the corner.