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Updated: June 7, 2025
Thou hast read my best, my worst riddle, myself, and what I have done. I know the axe that felleth thee. But he HAD TO die: he looked with eyes which beheld EVERYTHING, he beheld men's depths and dregs, all his hidden ignominy and ugliness. His pity knew no modesty: he crept into my dirtiest corners. This most prying, over-intrusive, over-pitiful one had to die.
The stroke he dealt you with his sword was like a blow from a sledge hammer, Sir Giles. He felled you from your horse as a butcher felleth an ox; and, in good truth, I at first thought the ox's fate had been yours, and that you would never rise again. Your helmet was dinted in as if by a great shot.
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