Kitabı oku: «The Three Perils of Man; or, War, Women, and Witchcraft, Vol. 1 (of 3)», sayfa 11
"My swiftness is greater than I can bear," cried the friar, pronouncing the sentence all in syllables for want of breath; "verily I shall fall among the cliffs of the rocks by the side of the highway."
His danger increased with his fears; for the mule perceiving that exertion availed not, and that there was no escaping from the fierceness of his pursuer's wrath, began to throw up his heels violently at every stroke, nevertheless continuing to exert himself between these evolutions. The friar's riding-gear began to get into disorder, and with great difficulty he retained his seat; therefore he cried out with a loud voice, "I pray of thee, my son, to desist, for it is better for me to perish by an enemy's hand than thine; seest thou not my confusion and despair—verily I shall be dashed in pieces against the stones."
The friar saw nought of Charlie's intent, else he would not have besought him so earnestly to desist. The Thief-gate-end was now hard at hand. It is still well known as a long narrow path alongst the verge of a precipice, and all the bank above it was then a thicket of brushwood and gorse, so close that the wild beast of the desart could not pass through it. It was, moreover, shagged with rocks, and bedded with small stones, and the path itself was so narrow, that two horsemen could scarcely ride abreast. By such a strenuous manœuvre on the parts of Charlie and the mule, the two flyers got into this path, without having lost any ground of their pursuers. When Charlie saw this, he began to breathe more freely, and, flinging away his hazel branch, he again seized his mighty weapon in his right hand.
"Let the chields come as close on us now, an they dare," said he.
The mule still continued to eye him with a great deal of jealousy, and perceiving the brandish that he gave his long sword when he said this, he set off again full speed; so that it was a good while before the friar got time to reply. As soon as he got leisure to speak, he opened his mouth and said,—"My son, wilt thou lift up thine arm against a multitude? or canst thou contend with the torrent of the mighty waters?"
"Well, well, they may perhaps lead that winna drive," said Charlie; and he went by the friar at a light gallop, leaving him behind, who prayed to the other not to leave him nor forsake him; but it was a device of Yardbire's, and a well conceived one. He saw that as long as he kept the rear guard, and rode behind the friar, the men that pursued them would not separate on that long narrow path; therefore he vanished among the bushes, keeping, however, always within hearing of the mule's feet. Accordingly, at the first turn of the road, the foremost of the English troopers, seeing the jolly bedesman posting away by himself, put the spurs to his steed, and made a furious dash at him. The friar cried out with a loud voice; and, seeing that he would be overtaken, he turned round and drew his sword to stand on the defensive; and actually not only bore the first charge of his opponent with considerable firmness, but had "very nigh smitten him between the joints of the harness," as he termed it. It happened, moreover, very singularly, from the perversity of the mule, that in the charge the combatants changed sides, at the imminent peril of the Englishman; for the mule brushed by his horse with such violence, and leaned so sore to the one side, that both the horse and his rider were within an inch of the verge of the precipice.
The friar had no sooner made his way by, than he saw another rider coming like lightning to meet him in the face; but at the same time he heard the voice of Charlie Scott behind him, and the rending crash of his weapon. This cheered the drooping spirits of the brave friar, who had been on the very point of crying for quarter. "They beset me before and behind," cried he, "yet shall my hand be avenged. Come on, thou froward and perverse one." So saying he assumed his guard, and met his foe face to face, seeing he had no alternative. The Englishman drew a stroke, but got not time to lay it on; for just as the mule and his tall horse met, the former, in the bitterness of his ire, rushed between his opponent and the upper bank, and pressed against his fore counters with such energy, that he made the leg next him to slacken, and the horse reared from the other. The intention of the irritated mule was to crush his master's leg, or, if possible, to rub him from off his back; and therefore, in spite of the rein he closed with the Englishman's tall steed in a moment, and almost as swift as lightning. The English moss-trooper had raised his arm to strike, but seeing his horse shoved and rearing in that perilous place, he seized the rein with his sword hand. The mule finding the substance to which he leaned give way, pressed to it the harder. It was all one to him whether it had been a tree, a horse, or a rock; he shouldered against it with his side foremost so strenuously, that in spite of all the trooper could do, the fore feet of his horse on rearing, alighted within the verge of the precipice. The noble animal made a spring from his hinder legs, in order to leap by the obstreperous mongrel; but the latter still coming the closer, instead of springing by he leaped into the open void, aiming at the branches of an oak that grew in a horizontal direction from the cliff. It was an old and stubborn tree, the child of a thousand years; and when the horse and his rider fell upon its hoary branches, it yielded far to the weight. But its roots being entwined in the rifted rock as far as the stomach of the mountain, it sprung upward again with a prodigious force to regain its primitive position, and tossed the intruding weight afar into the unfathomed deep. Horse and rider went down in a rolling motion till they lessened to the eye, and fell on the rocks and water below with such a shock, that the clash sounded among the echoes of the linn like the first burst of the artillery of heaven, or the roar of an earthquake from the depths of the earth.
Charlie Scott gazed on the scene with horror; every feature of his countenance was changed, and every hair on his great burly head stood on end. He gave a look to heaven, crossed himself, and said a short prayer, if a prayer it may be called that consisted only of four syllables. It consisted merely in the pronunciation of a name, too sacred to be set down in an idle tale; but he pronounced it with an emphasis that made it doubly affecting. The friar, on the contrary, astonished at his own prowess, or rather at that of his mule, beheld the scene with wonder, it is true, but also with a shade of ostentation. "I have overthrown the horse and his rider," said he, "and they are sunk down as a stone into the mighty waters." Corby manifested the fright that he was in, by loud and reiterated snortings; the mule also was astonied, and, that he might witness the horrific scene in more perfection, he kept his tail close to the precipice, and looked back.
"Now, by my honour as a man and a warrior, father," said Charlie, "you are a man amang ten thousand. I never knew of a bedesman who behaved so gallantly, nor have I seen a knight behave better. How durst you close so instantaneously and furiously with both these valiant troopers?"
"Thou hadst better put that question to my mule," said the friar,—"for it is a truth that he hath that in him that is the ruin of many people, viz. obstinacy of heart. When he smelleth the battle he disdaineth all parley or courtesy, as thou beholdest, but rusheth upon his adversary like one of the bulls of Bashan."
At that moment the friar's eye caught a glance of several horsemen close upon them, but as they could only come one man rank, they paused at seeing their enemies in quiet possession of the way, and standing in peaceful colloquy, apparently about something else.
"By the life of Pharaoh," said the friar, gazing all around, "I had forgot the man whom I first engaged and smote as he passed by."
"You will see nae mair o' him, father," said Charlie; "I gae him a deadly wound, but the saddle was locked to the horse, and the man to the saddle, and the furious animal has escaped away to the forest with the dead man on its back."
"Thou art indeed a man of valour," said the friar; "and here will we keep our ground. I will do more in our defence than thou hast yet witnessed; therefore, be not afraid, my son, for that sword of thine is a good sword."
"It is a good sword at a straik," returned Charlie; "but it's no very handy at making a defence. But an I get the first yerk of a chield, I'm no unco feared for his return. However, father, this sword, sic as it is, shall be raised in your defence as lang as my arm can wag it. I like the man that will stand a brush when a pinch comes,—see, thae chaps darena come on us. But, ill luck to the coward! gin they winna come to us, we'll gang to them."
"I will certainly go with thee," said the friar; "but I know the nature of the beast that I bestride, and that it will at the first onset bear me into the thickest of the battle; therefore, be not thou far from me in my need, for, though nothing afraid, yet I know it will carry me into peril. Come, let us go and smite these men with the edge of the sword."
"Gallant friar," said Charlie, "the Thief-road is lang an' narrow, an' there's hardly a bit o't that they can come on us twa in a breast; stand ye still; or be chopping on your way, an' I'll let you see yon lads get a surprise for aince."
"Nay, I will certainly stand with thee in battle," said the friar; "thinkest thou I will stand and be a looker on, when my preserver is in jeopardy? Lo, my heart is as thy heart, my arm as thy arm, and—but I cannot say my horse is as thy horse, for the beast is indeed froward in his ways, and perverse in all his doings."
Charlie hardly smiled at the phrase of the worthy friar,—for he meditated an attack on their pursuers, and his eye kindled with his heart toward the battle. He heaved up his sword-arm twice at its full stretch, to feel if it was nowise encumbered in the armour, and putting Corby in motion, he rode deliberately up to the face of his enemies. The foremost man spoke to him, demanding what he wanted; but he only answered by heaving his sword a little higher, and making his horse mend his pace. In one second after that he was engaged with the first man, and in two seconds the horse and his rider had fallen in the middle of the path. Charlie listed not coming to close quarter; his sword was so long and heavy, that it was quite unhandy in warding the blows of a short and light weapon. His aim, therefore, was always to get the first stroke, which was as apt to light on the horse as the man, and thus down both of them went. Springing by the prostrate warrior, he attacked the second and the third in the same manner, and with the same success, always either cutting down the trooper or cleaving the head of his horse at the first stroke. The path was now in the utmost confusion. Owing to the pause that had taken place, all the riders had come up and crowded each other behind, some crying, "He is a devil!" and others at a greater distance shouting out, "Down with the Scot! down with him!" Charlie regarded not their cries, but laid about him with all his might, till, after striking down three of the foremost and one horse, those next to him were glad to turn in order to effect their escape; but the hindermost on the path refusing for a while to give way, many of their friends fell a sacrifice to Charlie's wrath. He pursued them for a space, and might have cut them off every man, had he been sure that all was safe behind,—but he had rushed by some wounded men and wounded horses, and knew not how matters stood with the friar.
As he dreaded, so it fell out. Two of the Englishmen who had fallen perhaps under their horses, had scrambled up the bosky precipice, and, as he returned, assailed him with large stones, a mode of attack against which he was unable to make the least resistance. Therefore, it was at the utmost peril of his life that he made his way back through the encumbered path to his friend the friar. This latter worthy had found it impossible to lend his friend any assistance. The beast that he bestrode was fonder of rubbing shoulders with a living brute, than a mangled or dead one; so he refused to come nearer the first that fell than about twice his own length, where he stood firm, turning his tail to the scene of battle, and looking back. Our two heroes now set off at full speed after the rest of their party, whom they expected to overtake before reaching the outposts of the beleaguering army.
CHAPTER XII
Lord Duffus.—I saw the appearance of a mounted warrior.
Whence did it come, or whither did it go?
Or whom did it seek here?
Hush thee, my lord;
The apparition spoke not, but passed on.
'Tis something dreadful; and, I fear me much,
Betokens evil to this fair array.
Trag. of the Prioress.
The rest of our cavalcade continued to advance at a quick pace, not without anxiety. They were not afraid of their enemies coming behind them, for they had strong faith in the prowess of their friend, as well as his horse Corby. But when they came to the end of the narrow path, called the Thief-gate, there were two roads, and they knew not which of these to follow. As bad luck would have it, they took the most easterly, which led towards Yetholm, and left the Scottish army to the westward. In that path they continued to jog on, turning many a long look behind them for the approach of Charlie; and, at one time, they thought they got a view of him coming at a furious pace all alone; but the rider being at a great space behind them, he was shortly hid from their view in an intervening hollow, and it was long before they saw him any more. They judged that the friar was taken or slain, and began to talk of his loss in a very indifferent manner.
"Alas, how frigid and ungenial must be the hearts of you men in Scotland," said Delany. "Now, of all the men I have met with since I was brought from my own country, there is only one whose death I would more regret than that of the worthy and kind friar. He may have his whims and his peculiarities, but his manner is pleasing, and his speech has a strain of grandeur which I love. Where did he acquire that speech?"
"He gets it frae some auld-fashioned beuk," said Tam, "that he has pored on a' his days, an' translatit out o' other tongues, till he was nearly hanged for it; and it's weel kend that he is now in hiding wi' our warden for fear o' his life, and has been these half dozen o' years; and though he pretends to be only a friar, he was aince a monk o' the first order of St Benedict, and president of a grand college in France."
"I would like to converse with him," said Delany, "for I have always thought that he feigned to be something a degree lower than he is."
"You said there was but one you would lament the loss of more," said the poet: "Pray, who may that one be?"
"Could you not guess?" returned she.
"How can I?" said he; "but this I know, that to be the favoured one I would dive into the depths of the ocean,—"
"It wad be for fear then," said Tam.
"Or traverse the regions of ice," continued the bard, "or wander barefoot over burning sands, or—"
"O, alak for your poor feet!" said Delany, interrupting him; "but rest satisfied you shall not be put to the test: it is not you."
With such kind of chat did they beguile the way, till Elias, looking back, exclaimed, "Mercy! see what a guise Yardbire is coming in!"
"St Mary protect us!" said the maid; "he must be grievously wounded. See how he rides!"
Every one turned round his horse and looked at the approaching warrior; but it was wearing late, and they could not see with distinctness. The horse was coming rapidly, and with apparent impatience, but Charlie appeared as if he were riding in his sleep. When the horse came down hill he bent forward, and on climbing an ascent he bent back, riding with that sort of motion as if his back or neck were out of joint. The whole group showed manifest signs of fear at the approach of such a hideous apparition; and, quite in earnest, though in a pretended frolic, they wheeled about again, and gallopped away. The ground being uneven, and the night-fall coming on, they soon lost sight of him; and, continuing their career as fast as the road would permit, they seemed inclined to escape from their friend altogether. The maid had just begun to remonstrate on their unfriendly procedure, when they beheld the same unaccountable figure coming at the full gallop close behind them. Seeing that he was determined to be of the party, they suffered him to overtake them quietly. He came driving furiously up till he was in the middle of them, and then paused. No one had the courage to speak to him, for he looked not up, nor regarded any of them. His helmed head nodded on his breast, and his arms hung loosely down by his side, the steel armlets rattling on the cuishes. At one time his horse came so near to that on which Delany rode, that she weened she saw the rider all covered with blood, and screamed out; yet in the twilight she could not be certain. The poet, who was never far from her side, and on whom her voice always acted like electricity, immediately demanded the cause of her alarm.
"O Carol!" said she, in an agitated whisper, "we are haunted. That is a dead man that rides in our company."
If the maid was alarmed, the poet was ten times more so. If she had said that a lion or a bear was in the company, it could not have struck such a chillness to the poor bard's heart; and, after all, it was no wonder, for there is something exceedingly appalling in the idea of having a dead man riding in one's company. The poet felt this in its fullest measure. He held in his horse and attempted a reply, but a dryness pervaded his mouth so much that he could not make himself intelligible. A damp had fallen on the whole party, and a breathless silence prevailed. Tam put the question, so natural, to him as he passed, "Charlie, is this you?"—but none answered or regarded. They were riding up a slanting hill when the bard was first apprised of the nature of their guest, and shortly after the figure coming between him and the evening sky, its motions were altogether so hideous, that he roared out in perfect terror as loud as he could bray, scarce letting one bellow await another. This was still worse than the dumb appalling uncertainty in which they were before involved; till at last Tam, losing all patience, let loose his rage against the poet, calling him a bellowing beast, and many other opprobrious names. This encouraging Gibbie, who had the bard at no good will on account of the damsel, he said he brought him "amind of a story that the fo'k o' Annandale tauld about Andrew Jardine's bull, that was better at booing than breeding." The boy Elias now coming in behind them, and having heard what Delany said, cried softly, "Hush! yeomen! hush! we are haunted; it is a ghost that rides in our company."
They all turned their eyes to the mysterious figure, which they still thought resembled their champion Yardbire, as well as the horse did that which he rode, the redoubted Corby. The horse had started a little forward at the cries of the poet, but when the rest paused the figure seemed to wheel his horse around, and made a dead pause also, standing still with his face toward them, and straight on the path before. Not one durst proceed. The figure neither moved nor threatened, but stood nodding its head on the height at every motion of the steed; yet our party were arrested on their way, nor knew they exactly in what place they were: But from the length of the way they had come, they were sure they were near the Scottish army on one side or other, and free from any danger of the foes they had left behind them on the Border. None of them were good guides in any case, and a man in fear is neither a fit guide for himself nor others. Fear had the sway, and fear gave the word of command without being disputed. The poet was the first to strike from the beaten path, and it was at no easy pace that he rode. He turned westward, and the rest all followed with main speed. Their progress was soon interrupted by a strong cattle fence made of stakes and the branches of trees interwoven, bespeaking the vicinity of some village, or place of human habitation. They soon broke through the fence, but by bad luck did not take time to make up the breach, which they left open, and posting forward came to a large house amid a number of smaller ones. The poet called for admittance in a moving and earnest stile, and at once resolved to take no denial. Before ever he paused, he told them he and his party had lost their way, and that they had seen a ghost.
"Then you must be some murderers," said the men of the house,—"and here you remain not to-night."
"We belong to the warden of the marches, the brave baron of Mountcomyn," said the poet, "and go on an errand of great import to the army. In that case we might demand what we only ask as a boon, namely, such lodging as the house affords."
"You had better keep that part to yourself," said the men of the house: "Though Sir Ringan is supreme in the middle marches, he is no favourite here. Our master's name is Ker. He is with the Douglas, but may be home to-night. Calm sough and kitchen fare, or ride on."
"It brings me in mind o' an auld proverb," said Gibbie, "that beggars should nae be choisers; sae, honest lads, bring us a light, for our horses are sair tired an' maun be weel put up."
The party, it will be remembered, consisted only of five, exclusive of Charlie and the friar. They had draw up their horses close to the hall door, and were still on horseback when the men turned into the house for a light. The poet, whose eager eyes were still on the watch, chancing to look at the heads of his associates between him and the sky, thought he discovered one too many.
"Surely there are six of us,'said he in a hurried tremulous voice. "Six of us!" said Tam, as doubting the statement.
"Six of us? No, surely?" said Delany.
At that instant a lad came out with a lanthorn, and held it up to look at the party. The poet was nearest the door, and the light shone full on him and the rider that was next him. He cast his eyes on that rider,—but one glance was enough to bedim his eye-sight, if not to scare away his reason. It had the appearance of a warrior sheathed in steel, but all encrusted in a sheet of blood. His mouth was wide open, and his jaws hanging down upon his breast, while his head seemed to be cleft asunder. The poet uttered a loud yell of horror, and, flinging himself from his horse on the side opposite to that on which the phantom stood, he fell among the mud and stones at the door, yet ceased not to reiterate his loud cries like one in distraction. Every one jumped from his horse, and hurried in at the door; the man with the lanthorn also fled, and with the noise and uproar the horses galloped off, saddled and bridled as they were. As the guests ran into the hall, every one asked at all the rest what it was? "What is it?" was all that could be heard; all asking the question, but none answering it. Even the people of the house joined in the query, and came all round the strangers, crying, "What is it?—What is it?"—"I do not know—I do not know, Sir—I do not know upon my word."
"The people are all delirious," said the housekeeper:"—Can no one tell us what it was that affrighted you?—St Magdalene be with us! whom have we here?"
This was no other than the poor bard coming toward the light, creeping slowly on all-four, and still groaning as he came.
"Here's the chap that began the fray," said Tam, "you may speer at him. He rather looks as he were at ane mae wi't. For my part, I just did as the rest did,—ran an' cried as loud as I could. When a dust is fairly begun, I think aye the mair stour that is raised the better. I'll try wha will cry loudest again, an ye like,—or rin round the fire wi' ony o' you, or out through the mids o't either, at a pinch."
Tam turned round his long nose to see if his jest had taken, for he always fixed his eyes stedfastly on one object when he spoke; but he found that his jargon had been ill-timed, for no one laughed at it but himself. The rest were gathered round the bard; some pitying, but more like to burst with laughter at his forlorn state. He fetched two or three long-drawn moans, and then raising himself up on his knees, with his eyes fixed on the light, he rolled over, and fainted.
Delany first stooped to support his head, and was soon assisted by every female in the house, while the men only stood and looked on. By bathing his hands and temples with cold water, they soon brought him out of his faint, but not to his right senses. His looks continued wild and unstable, and ever and anon they were turned to the door, as if he expected some other guest to enter. A sober conference at last ensued; and as no one had seen or heard any thing at this last encounter, save the man that was taken ill, who a few moments before had been heard to say there were six of them, all began to agree that he had been seized with some sudden frenzy or delirium; till the lad, who had carried out the light, thrust in his pale face among the rest, and said,—"Na, na, my masters, it is nae for naething that the honest man's gane away in a kink; for, when I held up the bouet, I saw a dead man riding on a horse close at his side. He was berkened wi' blood off at the taes; and his mouth was open, and I saw his tongue hinging out."
It may well be conceived what an icy chillness these words distilled round the heart of every one present. The effect on our travellers was particularly appalling, from the idea that they were haunted by a phantom from which they could not escape. The whole group closed around the fire, and the strangers recounted to the family the singular occurrence of their having lost two of their number by the way, and been pursued and overtaken by a phantom resembling one of them, and that the hideous spectre was, as it seemed, haunting them still. As they all agreed in the same story, it was not of a nature to be disregarded at a period when superstition swayed the hearts of men with irresistible power. The stoutest heart among them was daunted, and no one durst go out to the vaults to look after his master's cattle, nor to take in our travellers' horses, that were left to shift for themselves during the long winter night.
The next morning, between day-light and the sun-rising, the men began to peep abroad, and the first things they observed were some of the horses of our travellers going about in a careless, easy manner. This they looked on as a good omen, knowing that horses were terrified for spirits; and the men joining in a body, they sallied out to reconnoitre. The horses had fared well, for they had fed at the laird's stacks of hay and corn all night; but as the men were going round to see how matters stood, they perceived a phenomenon, that, if it had not been open day-light, would have scared them from the habitation. This was the identical phantom-warrior still sitting unmoved on his horse, that was helping itself full liberally out of one of the laird's corn-ricks. The eye of day expels the films of superstition from the human eye. The men, after a short consultation, ventured to surround the phantom,—to seize his horse,—(who had given full proof that he at least was flesh and blood;)—and, after a good deal of trembling astonishment, they found that he was actually rode by a dead warrior, whose head was cleft asunder, and his whole body, both within and without the harness, encrusted in blood.
The mystery was soon cleared up; but none then knew who he was. It had become customary in that age for warriors, who went to engage others, on horseback, to lock themselves to the saddle, for fear of being borne out of their seats by the spears of their opponents in the encounter. This was the individual trooper who had come foremost in the pursuit of our party, he whom the friar jostled, and whom Charlie, encountering the moment after, had slain; but his suit of armour having kept him nearly upright in his saddle, his horse had run off with him, and followed after those of our travellers, as every horse will do that is let go on a high-way and gets his will.
Glad were our travellers at an eclaircissement so fairly within the bounds of their comprehension; and when the poet saw the gash made in the helmet, he shook his head, and exclaimed, "Ha! well I wot the mighty hand of Charlie has been here!"
Gibbie remarked that he himself had "killed one very like him, only he was sure his wad never mount horse again." But seeing Tam's ill-set eye fixed on him, he was afraid of something coming out relating to that encounter which he did not wish to hear blabbed; so he changed his tone, and, looking wise, said, "The hale business brings me a-mind of a very good story that happened aince at Allergrain; an' if it be nae true it is behadden to the maker, for the sin o' the lie lyes nae at my door. The story, you see, is this.—There was a man, an' he had a wife; an' they had a son, an' they ca'ed him Jock—"
"Now, d—n your particularity!" said Tam Craik: "think you we have nought else to do but stand beside the bloody man and listen to a long-winded tale like that?"
The poet muttered over some old rhyme in unison with what he heard. If one word spoken chanced to occur in any old rhyme or song that he knew, he went over the sentence to himself, though it had no farther connection with it, or resemblance to it, than merely that word. This made his conversation altogether incomprehensible to those not acquainted with him, but it was always delightful to himself; a chance old rhyme brought to his remembrance, would have pleased him almost in any circumstances, while his words chimed naturally into measure.
Leaving the dead warrior at the house where they lodged for the people to bury as they liked, they proceeded to the army, in hopes of finding Charlie and the friar there; for without them they did not know how to accomplish their mission. These two heroes finding, on asking at a hamlet, that their friends had not passed on the road to Roxburgh, suspected what way they had gone, and turning to the south-east they followed them on the track to Yetholm, but misled them at the house into which they had been chased by the dead man, and rode searching for them the greater part of the night. Next morning they again went in search of them, and came up behind them at the convent of Maisondieu near to the Teviot, where a detachment of the army was stationed; and, after conversing two or three hours on the state of the army and garrison, they proceeded on their journey, and reached the abbey of Melrose that night. There they were welcomed by the brethren, and lodged comfortably. There also they got many strange stories told to them about Master Michael Scott, which made the very hairs of their heads stand on end, and the hearts of the boldest to palpitate. When the friar heard them, he seemed wrapt in deep thought; and he opened his mouth, and said: "If the things that thou hast spoken be according to the light that is in thee, and the truth that is told among men, then this man is not as other men, for the spirit of the immortals is in him, and he communeth with the prince of the power of the air. Nevertheless, I will go unto him, and I will speak to him face to face, as a man speaketh to his friend. Peradventure I shall tell him that which he knoweth not."
