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Horatio was typically forthright, as straightforward as his Roman name—Horatius, of course, but what if oratio was in there? Speech? Language? Horatio was given to speaking when the mood struck him, and he had a greater patience for languages—for new ones that could not be deemed to be of much use to him. It was clear enough that he had more use for the Romans than the Greeks, but he read the latter nearly as well as he did Latin, and he could speak it tolerably enough.
There were, however, some quirks in his spoken Greek that at first seemed to be unfamiliarity, or at least discomfort, with certain constructions. On further acquaintance, though, it became apparent that these were deliberate patterns, and that Horatio understood at least something of the nature of the Greek thinkers even if he seldom actively applied their ideas. But that was just it: Horatio was seldom active in Greek; he resided predominately in the passive. And as he strung sentences together with post-positive conjunctions, he made a path as surely as if he were unwinding a ball of clew while wandering through a twisting labyrinth of ideas into which he would never venture in Latin; a meandering journey much more like the way Hamlet's ideas usually ran. Yet it was somehow quintessentially Horatian that the doer of the action was rarely his subject, that the world he spoke of was one described by a fixed, constant observer—as Horatio himself was. In this way, the Horatio who spoke Greek seemed to be the true Horatio, the core of the unobtrusively wondrous being that was Horatio as the world knew him.
In a strictly literal sense, Hamlet could acknowledge to himself, this was absurd, for Greek was surely at least the third language Horatio had learned, perhaps even by way of Latin rather than his own native tongue. And yet, Horatio never really was the land or the people from which he came; Horatio was Horatio, and Hamlet felt he was admitted to something quite private whenever Horatio, silent and unmoving for the past hour or more, spoke unexpectedly but somehow never suddenly, starting with 'now, however . . . ' and continuing on aloud some course of thought he had begun in his head who knew how long ago. Hamlet would sit mesmerized, enthralled by his friend's words, a part of him wondering what he might hear if he could perhaps nudge Horatio to speaking on a topic of Hamlet's choosing, the rest of him afraid that if he spoke at all—even made any kind of evidence of his presence—Horatio would cease from his ruminations, perhaps in offended privacy cease from Hamlet's company, or worse yet like some fairy spirit cease from association with mortals for a hundred years. So it was that Hamlet always listened in silence until the ideas—or perhaps the desire to give them voice—subsided, and Horatio sank again into soundless contemplation.
In all the months Hamlet had known him, Horatio had not given such vent to his thoughts above three, maybe four times, but these occasions were all the more precious for their rarity; quite unlike Hamlet, who sought out Horatio at least once a fortnight to impart, in Latin, his latest musings to a trusted ear, hoping for (and often receiving) some thoughtful response—conversation, even—upon the subject. The very next time, however, that Horatio set out upon one of his Greek ramblings, he came to a brief pause and turned to look Hamlet full in the eyes; from that time, Hamlet knew he was as welcome to the ῥήτωρ as to the orator.