[Illustration: Initial: "Satan's Cloven Hoof"]
Among the beautiful traits of the Irish character, none is more prominent
than the religious element. Philosophers declare that the worshipping
principle is strong in proportion to the lack of happiness in the
circumstances of life, and at first glance there seems a degree of truth
in the statement; for the rich, enjoying their riches, are likely to be
contented and to look no further than this world; while the poor,
oppressed and ground to the earth by those whom they feel to be no better
than themselves, having that innate sense of justice common to all men,
and discerning the inequality of worldly lots, are not slow to place
implicit belief in the doctrine of a final judgment, at which all
inequalities will be righted, and both rich and poor will stand side by
side; the former gaining no advantage from his riches, the latter being at
no disadvantage from his poverty.
There is, however, good reason to believe that in the days of Ireland's
greatness there was the same strength of devotion as at present. Ireland
is so full of ruined churches and ecclesiastical buildings as to give
color of truth to the statement of a recent traveller, "it is a country of
ruins." Rarely is the traveller out of sight of the still standing walls
of a long deserted church, and not infrequently the churches are found in
groups. The barony of Forth, in Wexford, though comprising a territory of
only 40,000 acres, contains the ruins of eighteen churches, thirty-three
chapels, two convents, and a hospital of vast proportions. Nor is this
district exceptional, for at Glendalough, Clon-mac-nois, Inniscathy, Inch
Derrin, and Innis Kealtra, there are groups of churches, each group having
seven churches, the edifices of goodly size, and at Clonferth and Holy
Cross, there are seven chapels in each town, so close together as to cause
wonder whether all were called into use.
One manifestation of the religious element of the Irish nature is seen in
the profound reverence for the memory of the saints. Of these, Ireland
claims, according to one authority, no less than seventy-five thousand,
and it is safe to say that the curious inquirer might find one or more
legends of each, treasured up in the unwritten folk-lore of the country
districts. To the disadvantage of the minor saints, however, most of the
stories cluster round a few well-known names, and nothing delights the
Irish story-teller more than to relate legends of the saints, which he
does with a particularity as minute in all its details as though he had
stood by the side of the saint, had seen everything that was done, and
heard every word that was spoken; supplying missing links in the chain of
the story from a ready imagination, and throwing over the whole the
glamour of poetic fancy inseparable from the Irish nature.
The neighborhood of Glendalough, County Wicklow, is sacred to the memory
of Saint Kevin, and abounds with legends of his life and works. The seven
churches which, according to tradition, were built there under his
direction, are now mostly in ruins; his bed, a hollow in a precipice, is
still shown, together with his kitchen and the altar at which he once
ministered. In the graveyard of one of the churches is a curious stone
cross, of considerable size, evidently monumental, though the inscription
has been so defaced as to be illegible. On the front of the cross there is
a deep indentation much resembling that made by the hoof of a cow in soft
earth, the bottom of the indentation being deepest at the sides and
somewhat ridged in the middle. Concerning this cross and the depression in
its face, the following legend was related by an old peasant of the
neighborhood.
[Illustration: Glendalough]
"Ye must know, that among all the saints that went to heaven from
Ireland's sod, there isn't wan, barrin' Saint Patrick, that stands in a
betther place than the blessed Saint Kevin av Glendalough, fur the
wondherful things that he done is past all tellin'. 'Twas he that built
all the churches ye see in the vale here, an' when he lived, he owned all
the land round about, fur he restored King O'Toole's goose, that the king
had such divarshun in, when it was too ould to fly, so the king gev him
all that the goose 'ud fly over, an' when the goose got her wings agin,
she was so merry that she flew over mighty near all the land that King
O'Toole had before she come back at all, so he got it.
"'Twas he too that put out o' the counthry the very last sarpint that was
left in it, afther Saint Patrick had druv the rest into the say, fur he
met the baste wan day as he was walkin' in the hills and tuk him home wid
him to give him the bit an' sup, an' the sarpint got as dhrunk as a piper,
so Saint Kevin put him in a box an' nailed it up an' flung it into the
say, where it is to this blessed day.
"But 'tis my belafe that the besht job o' work he ever done was markin'
the divil so if you'd meet him an the road, you'd know in a minnit that it
was himself an' no other that was in it, an' so make ready, aither fur to
run away from him, or to fight him wid prayin' as fast as ye cud, bekase,
ye see, it's no use fur to shtrive wid him any other way, seein' that no
waypon can make the laste dint on his carkidge.
"In thim days, an' before phat tuk place I'm tellin' ye av, the divil was
all as wan as a man, a tall felly like a soger, wid a high hat comin' to a
pint an' feathers on it, an' fine boots an' shpurs an' a short red jacket
wid a cloak over his shoulder an' a soord be his side, as fine as any
gintleman av' the good ould times. So he used to go about the counthry,
desavin' men an' wimmin, the latther bein' his chice as bein' aisier fur
to desave, an' takin' thim down wid him to his own place, an' it was a
fine time he was havin' entirely, an' everything his own way. Well, as he
was thravellin' about, he heard wan day av Saint Kevin an' the church he
was afther buildin' an' the haythens he was convartin' an' he says to
himself, 'Sure this won't do. I must give up thriflin' an' look afther me
bizness, or me affairs 'ull go to the dogs, so they will.'
"It was in Kerry he was when he heard the news, an' was havin' a fine time
there, fur when Saint Patrick convarted Ireland, he didn't go to Kerry,
but only looked into it an' blessed it an' hurried on, but though he
didn't forget it, intindin', I belave, to go back, the divil tuk up his
quarthers there, to make it as sure as he cud. But when he heard av Saint
Kevin's doin's, it was too much fur him, so he shtarted an' come from
Kerry to Glendalough wid wan jump, an' there sure enough, the walls o' the
church were risin' afore his eyes, an' as he stud on that hill he heard
the avenin' song o' the monks that were helpin' Saint Kevin in the work.
So the divil was tarin' mad, an' stud on the brow o' the hill, cursin' to
himself an' thinkin' that if any more churches got into Ireland, his job
o' work 'ud be gone, an' he'd betther go back to England where he come
from. He made up his mind though, that he'd do fur Saint Kevin if he cud,
but mind ye, the blessed saint was so well beknownst to all the counthry,
that the divil was afeared to tackle him. So he laid about in the grass,
on his breast like a sarpint fur three or four days till they were
beginnin' to put the roof on, and then he thought he'd thry.
"Now I must tell ye wan thing. The blessed saint was at that time only a
young felly, though they don't make 'em any betther than he was. When he
left home, he'd a shweetheart be the name o' Kathleen, an' she loved him
betther than her life, an' so did he her in that degray that he'd lay down
an' die on the shpot fur the love av her, but his juty called him fur to
be God's priest, an' he turned his back on father an' mother an' saddest
av all on Kathleen, though it was like tarin' out his heart it was, an'
came to Glendalough. Kathleen was like to die, but afther a bit, she got
over it a little an' went into a convent, for, says she, 'I'll marry no
wan, an' 'ull meet him in heaven.' But Saint Kevin didn't know phat had
become av her, an' thried hard not to think av her, but wanst in a while
the vision av her 'ud come back to him like the mem'ry av a beautiful
dhrame.
"Now about this time, while the divil was layin' about in the bushes
a-watchin' the work, an' the tower of the big church was liftin' itself
above the trees, the blessed saint begun to be onaisy in his mind, fur,
says he to himself, 'Things is too aisy entirely. It's just thim times
when all is goin' on as smooth as a duck on a pond that the divil comes
down like a fox on a goslin' an' takes every wan unbeknownst, so wins the
vict'ry. I'll have a care, fur afther the sunshine comes the shtorm,' says
he. So that avenin' he ordhered his monks to say a thousand craydos, an'
two thousand paters an' aves, an' afther that was done, he got in his boat
an' crassed the lake. He climbed up to his bed above ye there, an' said
his baids agin an' went to slape, but the divil was watchin' him like a
hawk, for he'd laid a thrap fur the blessed saint to catch him wid, that
was thish-a-way.
"Every body knows how that Satan is shlicker than a weasel, an' has a
mem'ry like a miser's box that takes in everything an' lets nothin' go
out. When ye do anything, sorra a bit av it 'scapes the divil, an' he hugs
it clost till a time comes when he can make a club av it to bate ye wid,
an' so he does. The owld felly remimbered all that passed betune Kathleen
an' the blessed saint, an' he knewn how hard it was fur Saint Kevin to
forgit her, so he thought he'd put him in a fix. Afther the saint had
cuddled up in his shtraw wid his cloak over him an' was shnoring away as
snug as a flea in a blanket, comes the divil, a-climbin' up the rock, in
the exact image o' the young Kathleen. Ye may think it quare, but it's no
wondher to thim that undherstands it, fur the divil can take any shape he
plazes an' look like any wan he wants to, an' so he does for the purpose
av temptin' us poor sinners to disthruction, but there's wan thing be
which he's always known; when ye've given up to him or when ye've baten
him out o' the face, no matther which, he's got to throw aff the disguise
that's on him an' show you who he is, an' when he does it, it isn't the
iligant, dressed-up divil that ye see an' that I was just tellin' ye av,
but the rale, owld, black nagur av a rannychorus, widout a haporth o' rags
to the back av him, an' his horns an' tail a-shtickin' out, an' his eyes
as big as an oxen's an' shinin' like fire, an' great bat's wings on him,
an', savin' yer prisince, the most nefairius shmell o' sulfur ye ever
shmelt. But before, he looks all right, no matther phat face he has, an'
it's only be the goodness o' God that the divil is bound fur to show
himself to ye, bekase, Glory be to God, it's his will that men shall know
who they're dalin' wid, an' if they give up to the divil, an' afther
findin' out who's in it, go on wid the bargain they've made, sure the
fault is their own, an' they go to hell wid their eyes open, an' if they
bate him, he's got to show himself fur to let thim see phat they've
escaped.
"Well, I was afther sayin', the divil was climbin' up the rock in the form
o' Kathleen, an' come to the saint's bed an' teched him an the shouldher.
The blessed saint was layin' there belike dhraming o' Kathleen, fur sure,
there was no harm in that, an' when he woke up an' seen her settin' be his
side, he thought the eyes 'ud lave him.
"'Kathleen,' says he, 'is it yoursilf that's in it, an' me thinkin' I'd
parted from you forever?'
"'It is,' says the ould desaver, 'an' no other, Kevin darlint, an' I've
come to shtay wid ye.'
"'Sure darlint,' says the saint, 'ye know how it bruk me heart entirely to
lave ye, no more wud I have done it, but be the will o' God. Ye know I
loved ye, an' God forgive me, I'm afeared I love ye still, but it isn't
right, Kathleen. Go in pace, in the name o' God, an' lave me,' says he.
"'No Kevin,' says Satan, a-throwin' himself on Kevin's breast, wid both
arrums round his neck, 'I'll never lave ye,' lettin' an to cry an' dhrop
tears an the face o' the blessed saint.
"It's no aisy matther to say no to a woman anyhow, aven to an ugly woman,
but when it's a good-lookin' wan that's in it, an' she axin' ye wid her
arrums round ye an' the crystal dhrops like that many dimunds fallin' from
her eyes that look at ye like shtars through a shower av rain, begob it's
meself that doesn't undhershtand why Saint Kevin didn't give up at wanst,
an' so he wud if he hadn't been the blessed saint that he was. But he was
mightily flusthered, an' no wondher, an' stud there wid his breast
hayvin', a-shtrivin' to resist the timptation to thrade a crown in heaven
fur a love on airth.
"'Lave this place, Kevin,' says the tempther, 'an' come wid me, we'll go
away an' be happy together forever,' an' wid that word, an' as the fate av
the saint was trimblin' in the balances, the holy angels o' God stud
beside him, an' wan whishpered in his ear that the Kathleen he loved
before was a pure, good woman, an' that she'd 'a' died afore she'd come to
him that-a-way.
"'No,' says he, wid sudden shtrength. 'It's not Kathleen that's in it, but
an avil sper't. God's prisence be about us! Get you gone Satan an' sayce
to throuble me,' an' that minnit the blessed saint jumped up aff the
ground an' wid his two feet gev the owld rayprobate a thunderin' kick in
the stummick, an' when he doubled up wid the pain an' fell back an'
clapped his hands together on the front av him, Saint Kevin gev him
another in his rare, axin' yer pardon, that sent him clane over the clift,
wid Saint Kevin gatherin' shtones an' flingin' thim afther him wid all the
might that was in him. So the minnit the saint kicked him the very foorst
kick, Kathleen disappeared, an' there was the owld black Belzebub
a-tumblin' over, an' fallin' down to the lake, holdin' his stummick an'
thryin' hard to catch himself wid his wings afore he'd hit the wather. But
he did by the time he got to the bottom an' flew away, bellerin' worse nor
a bull with a dog hangin' to his nose, so that all the monks woke wid
fright, an' cudn't go to shlape agin till they'd said a craydo an' five
aves apiece, but the blessed saint set be his bed a-sayin' his baids the
rest o' the night wid a pile o' shtones convaynient to his hand fur fear
the divil 'ud come back. But Satan flew over an that hill an' rubbed
himself before an' behind too, where the saint had kicked him, an' didn't
go back, for he'd enough o' the saint fur that time. But he was mightily
vexed, an' not to lose the chance fur to do some mischief before he'd go
away, he pulled down all the walls that the poor monks had built that day.
"Now there's thim that says that it was the rale Kathleen that Saint Kevin
kicked over the clift, but sure that's not thrue, fur it's not in an
Irishman to thrate a woman that-a-way, that makes me belave that the
shtory I'm tellin' ye was the thrue shtory an' that it wasn't Kathleen at
all, but Satan, that Saint Kevin thrated wid such onpoliteness, an my
blessin' an him fur that same, fur he come out very well axceptin' five or
six blisthers on his face, where the divil's tears touched him, that's
well known to make blisthers on phatever they touch.
"Well, as I was sayin', he pulled down the church walls, an' the monks put
thim up agin, an' the next mornin' they were down, an' so fur a good bit
the contist went an betune the divil an' the monks, a-shtrivin' if they
cud build up fashter than he cud pull down, fur he says to himself, Satan
did, 'Jagers, I can't be losin' me time here widout doin' something, nor,
bedad, no more can I tell how to rache the saint widout sarcumspectin'
him.'
[Illustration: Saint Kevin and the Devil]
"But the saint bate him at that game, for wan night, afther the work was
done, he put half the monks on the wall to watch there the night, an' when
Satan come flyin' along like the dirthy bat that he was, there was the
monks all along be the day's job, aitch wan a-sayin' his baids as fast as
he cud an' a bottle o' holy wather be his side to throw at the divil when
he'd come. So he went from thim an' be takin' turns at watchin' an'
workin', they finished the church.
"In coorse o' time, Saint Kevin wanted another church an' begun to build
it too, for he said, 'Begob, I'll have that church done be fall if every
grain o' sand in Glendalough becomes a divil an' rises up fur to purvint
it,' an' so he did, Glory be to God, but at first was bothered to git the
money fur to raise the walls. Well, wan day as he was in the bother, he
was walkin' an the hills, an' he heard the clattherin' av a horse's feet
behind him an the road, an' afore he cud turn round, up comes the most
illigant black horse ye ever seen, an' a tall gintleman a ridin' av him,
wid all the look av a soger, a broad hat on the head av him, an' a silk
jacket wid goold trimmin's, an' shtripes on his britches, an' gloves to
his elbows, an' soord an' shpurs a-jinglin', the same as he was a rich
lord.
"'God save ye,' says the saint.
"'God save ye kindly,' says the gintleman, an' they walked an together an'
fell into convarsin'.
"'I'm towld ye're afther buildin' another church,' says the gintleman.
"'It's thrue for ye,' says the saint, 'but it's meself that's bothered
about that same, for I've no money,' says he.
"'That's too bad,' says the gintleman; 'have ye axed for help?' says he.
"'Faix, indade I have,' says the saint, 'but the times is hard, an' the
money goin' out o' the counthry to thim blaggard landlords in England,'
says he.
"'It's right ye are,' says the gintleman, 'but I've hopes o' betther times
when the tinants get the land in their own hands,' says he. 'I'm goin' to
right thim avils. I'm the new Lord Liftinant,' says he, 'an' able to help
ye an the job, undher a proper undhershtandin',' says he.
"At foorst Saint Kevin was that surprised that he'd like to dhrop an the
road, fur he hadn't heard av the 'pintmint av a new Lord Liftinant, but he
raizoned wid himself that it cud aisily be done widout his knowin' av it,
an' so he thought he'd a shtrake av luck in seein' av him.
"'God be good to yer Lordship,' says he, 'an' make yer bed in the heavens,
an' it's thankful I'd be fur any shmall favors ye plaze to give, fur it's
very poor we are.'
"'An' phat 'ud ye say to a prisint av tin thousand pound,' says the
gintleman, 'purvided ye spind it an the church ye have an' not in buildin'
a new wan,' says the gintleman, an' wid that word, Saint Kevin knew the
ould inimy, an' shtarted at him.
"But the divil had enough o' Saint Kevin's heels, for he'd felt the kick
he cud give wid 'em, an' faix, the blessed saint was as well sarcumstanced
in that quarther as a donkey, an' Belzebub knew that same, so he niver
stayed, but when he saw Saint Kevin comin', immejitly the black horse
changed into a big dhraggin, an' the illigant close dhrapped aff the divil
an' in his own image he went aff shpurrin' the dhraggin, he an' the baste
flappin' their wings as fast as they cud to get out of the saint's way an'
lavin' afther thim the shmell av sulfur that shtrong that the blessed
saint did nothin' for an hour but hould his nose an' cough.
"Afther thim two axpayriences, the divil seen it was no use o' him
offerin' fur to conthraven Saint Kevin, so he rayjuiced his efforts to
botherin' the monks at the work. He'd hang about day an' night, doin' all
the mischief that he cud, bekase, says he, 'If I can't shtop thim, by
Jayminy, I'll delay thim to that degray that they'll find it the shlowest
job they ever undhertuk,' says he, an' so it was. When they'd finish a bit
o' the wall an' lave it to dhry, up 'ud come the divil an' kick it over;
when two o' them 'ud be carrying a heavy shtone, the divil, unbeknownst to
thim, 'ud knock it out o' their hands so as to make it dhrop on their
toes, a-thinkin' belike, that they'd shwear on the quiet to thimselves:
that they never did; when a holy father 'ud lay down his hammer an' turn
his back, the divil 'ud snatch it up an' fling it aff the wall; till wid
his knockin' over the wather-bucket, an' shcrapin' aff the morthar, an'
upsettin' the hod o' bricks, an' makin' the monks forgit where they'd put
things, it got so that they were in a muck o' shweat every hour o' the
day; an' from that time it got to be said, when anything wint wrong widout
a raizon, that the divil's in it.
"Now whin Saint Kevin conshecrated the church, they tuk wid it the ground
round about as far as ye see that shtone wall, for, says he, 'Sure it'll
always be handy.' So in coorse o' time, as the second church was gettin'
done, wan avenin' Saint Kevin went out wid a bucket fur to milk his cow,
that had just come down from the mountain where she'd been grazin'. Well,
he let the calf to her, an' the poor little baste bein' hungry, fur I
belave the cow hadn't come up the night afore, it begun on wan side an'
the saint an the other, an' the calf was suckin' away wid all the jaws it
had, an' kep' up a haythenish punchin' wid its nose beways av a hint to
the cow fur to give up more milk. The calf punched an' the cow kicked,
fur, mind ye, the divil was in thim both, the poor bastes, no more was it
their fault at all, an' betune howldin' the bucket in wan hand an' milking
wid the other wan, an' kapin' his eye shkinned for the cow's heels, an'
shovin' the calf from his side, the saint was like to lose all the milk.
"'Tatther an' agers,' says he, 'shtand shtill, ye onnattheral crayther, or
I'll bate the life out o' ye, so I will,' says he, tarin' mad, fur the
calf was gettin' all, an' the bottom o' the bucket not covered. But the
cow wudn't do it, so the blessed saint tuk the calf be the years fur to
drag him away, an' then the cow run at him wid her horns so that he had to
let go the calf's years an' dodge an' was in a bother entirely. But he got
him a club in case the cow 'ud offer fur to hook him agin, an' opened the
gate into the field behind the church, an' afther a good dale o' jumpin'
about he sucsayded in dhrivin' in the cow an' kapin' out the calf. Then he
shut the gate an' wipin' the shweat aff his blessed face, he got the
bucket an' shtool an' set down to milk in pace. But be this time the cow
was tarin' mad at bein' shut from the calf, an' at the first shquaze he
gev her, she jumped like she'd heard a banshee, an' then phat 'ud she do
but lift up her heel an' give him a kick an the skull fit to crack it fur
him an' laid him on the grass, an' turnin' round, she put her fut in the
bucket an' stud lookin' at him, as fur to ax if he'd enough.
"'The divil brile the cow,' says the saint, God forgive him fur cursin'
her, but ye see he'd lost all consate av her be the throuble he'd had wid
her afore, besides the crack on his head, that was well nigh aiquel to the
kick he cud give himself, so that he was axcusable fur phat he was sayin',
fur it's no joke I'm tellin' ye to be made a showbogher av, be a baste av
a cow.
"'Sure I will, yer Riverince,' says a deep voice behind him, 'an' thank ye
fur that same favor, fur it's a fat bit she is.'
"Saint Kevin riz up a-rubbin' his head as fast as he cud an' looked round
an' there sure enough was owld Satan himself standin' there grinnin' away
wid the horrid mouth av him stratched from year to year, a-laughin' at the
fix the saint was in. Well, the minnit Saint Kevin set his two eyes an
him, he knewn he had him, fur ye see, the ground was conshecrated, but the
divil didn't know it fur it was done wan time when he'd gone to Cork to
attind a landlord's convintion to raise the rints on a lot o' shtarving
tinants, that bein' a favorite job wid him. If he'd knewn the ground was
holy, he'd never dared to set fut an it, fur ye see, if ye can ketch the
divil an holy ground where he's no bizness, ye've got him fast an' tight
an' can pull him in when ye plaze. But the saint wasn't goin' to give the
owld desaver any show so he run at him an' gripped him be the horns, the
same as he was a goat, an' threw him an the ground an' tied his hands wid
a pace av his own gown that he tore aff, an' the divil, do phat he cud,
wasn't able to break loose.
"'Now,' says he, 'ye slatherin', blood-suckin', blaggardin' nagur, I'll
fix ye, ye owld hippypotaymus, so as ivery sowl in Ireland 'ull know ye
where ever ye're met.'
"So he rowled up his shlaves an' shpit an his hands an' fell to work. He
onschrewed the divil's left leg at the jint av the knee, an' laid it an
the grass. Then he tuk aff the cow's right hind leg at the knee an' laid
that an the grass. Then he schrewed the owld cow's leg an the divil's
knee, an' the divil's fut an the owld cow's leg, an' untied Satan an' bid
him git up.
"'Now,' says he to him, 'do you go at wanst, an' I bid ye that when ye
meet man or mortial, the foorst thing ye do is to show that fut that they
know from the shtart who ye are. Now shtart, ye vagabone blaggard av a
shpalpeen, or I'll kick the backbone shtrait up into the shkull o' ye.
Out!' he says, flourishin' his fut at him.
"Well, the divil made a break fur to run, bekase he wanted no more
benedictions from the toes o' Saint Kevin, but not bein' used to his new
leg, the very foorst shtep he made wid it, it kicked out behind agin this
shtone, that wasn't a crass at all then, an' made this hole that ye see,
an' Saint Kevin tuk the shtone an' made a crass av it aftherwards. But the
divil didn't shtop at all when the leg wudn't go fur him, fur he seen the
blessed saint comin', a-wavin' his fut about, so he rowled over an' over
till he got to the wall, then made a shpring an it an' out av sight like a
ghost.
[Illustration: "An' so he's lame, an' must show his cloven fut"]
"That's the way Satan got his lame leg, bekase, ye see he's niver larned
fur to manage it, an' goes limpity-lop, an' though he wears a cloak, is
obligated fur to show the cow's fut whenever he talks wid any wan, fur if
he doesn't, begorra, the leg does fur itself, fur it's niver forgot the
thrick av kicking the owld cow larned it, an' if Satan waits a minnit, up
goes the cow's fut, as hard an' high as the last time she kicked the
saint. No more did the divil ever dare to come there agin, so the blessed
Saint Kevin was left in pace to build the siven churches, an the divil
wasn't ever seen in Glendalough, till the day the saint was berrid, an'
then he peeped over the hill to look at the berryin', but he wudn't come
down, thinkin', belike, it was a lie they were tellin' him when they said
the saint was dead, fur to injuice him to come into the glen an' give
Saint Kevin wan more whack at him wid his fut. An' they do say, that he's
been to the besht docthers in the univaarse fur to get him another leg,
but they cudn't do it, Glory be to God; an' so he is lame an' must show
his cloven fut, so as ivery wan knows at wanst that it's the divil himself
that's in it, an' can run away from him before he's time to do thim harm.