Novel Bin
Chapter 322: Poseidon and Hera's plan
Chapter 322: Poseidon and Hera's plan
Hera was livid. Her divine essence seethed with an incandescent fury that threatened to shake the very foundations of Olympus itself. The unthinkable had happened—the Greeks had lost the Trojan War.
It felt like a waking nightmare, a cruel jest woven by the Fates themselves. How could such a thing be possible? The Greeks had been the stronger force, their army vast and composed of the finest warriors to ever walk the earth. More than that, they had been led by the greatest of their kind—mighty kings and warriors who had carved their names into history with blood and steel.
Agamemnon, the High King, had been slain. Menelaus, who had sought vengeance for his stolen wife, lay dead. Ajax, the indomitable warrior, had fallen. Even Heracles, the son of Zeus himself, had perished. It was inconceivable.
By all logic, by all divine decree, the Greeks should have triumphed. Their superiority was undeniable. Even the gods themselves had tipped the scales in their favor. Hera herself, alongside Athena—the goddess of wisdom and victory—had stood unwaveringly behind the Greeks. And yet, it had not been enough. Despite their backing, despite their meticulous interference, the Greeks had been utterly and irrevocably defeated.
The final blow to her expectations, the ultimate betrayal of fate, had come from Achilles. He had been her trump card, the lynchpin of her grand design. Yet, in a turn of events that defied all reason, he had changed sides. The mighty Achilles had abandoned the Greeks, lured away by love, and had even fathered a child. It was incomprehensible. It was infuriating.
Everything had been set in place for a Greek victory. The Trojans had been vastly outmatched—only Hector, their noble prince, and the Amazonian queen Penthesilea had been worth mentioning. And yet, against all odds, against every law of destiny, Troy had emerged victorious. Both Hector and Penthesilea still lived, standing triumphant amidst the ruins of what should have been their downfall.
But Hera knew—this unnatural shift in fate had a cause. A single man had tipped the balance of history, reshaping the very fabric of the war itself.
His name was Heiron, but he was known as the Hero of Darkness.
Or, as Hera now understood with bitter clarity, his true name—Nathan Parker.
A man who should not exist.
He had once been summoned by the Light Emperor, a chosen hero, only to be struck down and slaughtered by the accursed Liphiel. He should have remained dead. And yet, defying death itself, he had returned. Not once, but twice.
And this time, he had turned the tide of war.
Nathan Parker—Heiron, Samael, the accursed Hero of Darkness—had slain Ajax. He had slain Heracles. And in the final, crushing moment of victory, he had cut down Agamemnon himself.
The Greeks had never stood a chance.
Hera trembled with rage. She had tried—oh, how she had tried—to rid the world of him. Time and time again, she had reached out with her divine might to end him before he could reshape destiny. She had sent assassins, conjured plagues, whispered omens of doom to those who could act against him. And yet, every time, her efforts had been thwarted.
Apollo, Artemis, Aphrodite, and Ares—those meddling gods—had shielded him at every turn, countering her every move, ensuring his survival.
And now, it was too late.
Nathan Parker had won.
And the last look he had given her before vanishing from the battlefield… it had been a promise. A silent, chilling promise.
A promise of vengeance.
Hera clenched her fists, her divine nails digging into her palms hard enough to draw golden ichor.
Nathan Parker was dangerous.
And he was coming for her.
Hera did not know when, nor did she know how. But she was certain of one thing—he would come. The look he had given her after Troy's fall had been more than enough to make her uneasy. It was not the glare of a mere mortal who despised a goddess. No, it was something far worse. It was the look of a man who had already decided her fate.
She had witnessed ambition, hatred, and revenge countless times over the centuries, but never before had she felt such an ominous foreboding. Nathan was progressing at an alarming rate, far faster than anyone should. His strength, his influence, his very existence were growing into something monstrous, something unnatural.
At the rate he was advancing, there would come a time when even she—Hera, Queen of the Gods—would not be able to touch him. And that was unacceptable.
That was why she had made up her mind.
He had to die.
The Trojan War was over, which meant Apollo, Artemis, and the others who had protected him would no longer interfere. Their interests had been tied to the war, but now that it was settled, Nathan was nothing more than a loose end—a powerful, unpredictable anomaly that needed to be erased before he became untouchable.
And now, she had her chance.
Hera's opportunity came the moment Hermes informed her that Nathan had left Troy and was traveling to Lyrnessus. She did not hesitate. Summoning the mighty sea god, she called upon Poseidon himself.
She needed no elaborate persuasion—Poseidon was already eager to act.
Nathan had used Khione's power during the war, unleashing its full force on the battlefield. That had not gone unnoticed. The moment he had done so, Poseidon had sensed her presence. Had it not been for Zeus's command forbidding him from interfering in the war, Poseidon would have struck Nathan down then and there.
But now, Zeus was no longer holding him back.
Now, Poseidon was free.
And he had no intention of letting this insult go unanswered.
Nathan Parker, a mere mortal—a man—had a connection to his Khione. The very thought of it was enough to make Poseidon seethe with rage. A mortal wielding the power of the goddess of snow and frost? It was an affront. An impossibility. Something that should not exist.
If not for Zeus's decree, he would have drowned all of Troy in a towering wave of divine fury. But now, patience had rewarded him. The opportunity had come.
Hera and Poseidon descended from the heavens, their divine forms shimmering as they stepped onto the mortal plane. They hovered above the city of Lyrnessus, looking down at their prey.
Poseidon turned his gaze to Hera, his deep blue eyes filled with anticipation. "Zeus… what of him?" he asked, wary of his brother's watchful gaze.
Hera's expression darkened, a cruel smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "Do not concern yourself with him," she said coldly.
With a snap of her fingers, a shimmering veil of divine energy rippled outward, engulfing the entire city below. A barrier—one crafted from her own divine authority.
"He will not see anything that happens here," she continued, her voice dripping with confidence.
Poseidon grinned. "Good. Just to be sure…"
He raised his hand and snapped his fingers as well, layering his own divine barrier over hers. The twin divine seals pulsed, entwining and solidifying into an impenetrable shroud.
Even Zeus himself would not be able to see through it—not unless he came down to Lyrnessus in person. And why would he? The city was insignificant. There was no reason for him to interfere.
They were free to do as they pleased.
Poseidon crossed his arms and looked at Hera expectantly. "Are you certain he's here?"
Hera smirked.
"Yes," she said, her eyes gleaming with malice.
"Look."
Poseidon followed Hera's gaze, his piercing blue eyes narrowing as they locked onto the lone figure emerging from the grand halls of Lyrnessus.
It was him.
Nathan Parker.
The mortal walked with an air of quiet confidence, his every step unhurried, oblivious to the divine eyes that watched from above. There was no sign of tension in his posture, no flicker of awareness that he was being hunted. He was simply… walking.
Poseidon tilted his head slightly, his curiosity piqued. "What is he doing here alone?" he mused aloud.
Hera scoffed beside him, folding her arms across her chest. "Who cares?" she snapped. "Just get the information you want and kill him afterward."
Poseidon smirked. He had no objections to that.
In an instant, his divine presence flared, and he vanished from the sky. A heartbeat later, he reappeared directly in front of Nathan, blocking his path.
The earth trembled beneath him as he tapped the end of his golden trident against the ground, sending a wave of power rippling through the stone. Dust and debris scattered at the force, but the mortal before him did not flinch.
Nathan merely stopped in his tracks, his cold silver eyes locking onto Poseidon's with unnerving calmness.
The god of the sea grinned, tilting his head as he took in the sight of the man who had defied fate itself. "You have been quite busy, haven't you?" Poseidon mused, amusement dripping from his voice. "Dying… getting reborn by some unknown force… and then killing Agamemnon. But tell me—" He leaned in slightly, his grin widening. "Did you really think you could get away scot-free after drawing the attention of so many gods?"
The ground beneath them rumbled as he pressed his trident against the earth once more, cracks splitting outward like veins of destruction. Yet despite the show of power, Nathan remained eerily composed.
"Are you here to kill me?" the mortal asked, his voice level, unreadable. "Both of you?"
Poseidon chuckled darkly. "Oh?" He glanced up at Hera, who still hovered above, watching with cold, detached satisfaction. "No, only Hera wants you dead." His smirk grew. "I only want information about my dear Khione."
A lie.
Nathan could tell instantly.
The way Poseidon's eyes gleamed with malice, the way his fingers tightened around the shaft of his trident ever so slightly—it was obvious. Even if he handed over the information, Poseidon would not let him leave this place alive.
Nathan had already been sentenced.
The god of the sea was merely waiting to pass judgment.
Nathan's lips curled slightly, his gaze unwavering. "Does Zeus know that the two of you are here?" he asked next.
Poseidon threw his head back and laughed, his voice deep and resounding like the crashing of waves against an unshaken cliff. "Kahaha! You're hoping for my brother to save you? How foolish." His laughter faded into a low, predatory chuckle. "No. Zeus won't be coming. He doesn't even know where we are. No one does."
His smile turned cold. "So you'd best start talking."
But then—
Nathan's smirk deepened.
He tilted his head slightly, amusement flickering in his demonic gold eyes.
"No one knows you said?"
"䤹䴓㤵 㠉㗢㸡 㤵䫏㗫 㞑㟟䊱䓻䊱䯶䒽䰐 䚹㠉㓎㸡 㤵䫏㗫 䓻䫏㞑㦤 㤵䫏㗫㗢 㟟䊱䯶䄏䰐" 㞑䴓㸡 㠉㞑㒱㸡䄏㕗 䴓㸡㗢 㓎䫏䊱㒩㸡 䓻㠉㒩㸡䄏 䔀䊱㦤䴓 㞑㗫㞑㨎䊱㒩䊱䫏䯶䙺
㖫㠉㦤䴓㠉䯶'㞑 㸡㢟㨎㗢㸡㞑㞑䊱䫏䯶 䄏䊱䄏 䯶䫏㦤 㒩䴓㠉䯶䒽㸡㕗 㮩㗫㦤 䴓䊱㞑 㸡㤵㸡㞑 䄏㠉㗢㒱㸡䯶㸡䄏㕗 㦤䴓㸡 㟟䊱㗢㦤䴓 㓎㠉䯶䊱㞑䴓䊱䯶䒽 䊱䯶 㠉䯶 䊱䯶㞑㦤㠉䯶㦤䙺 "㖫䫏㦤 㠉㦤 㠉䓻䓻䙺 㺺'㟟 㝲㗫㞑㦤 㨎䓻㸡㠉㞑㸡䄏 㦤䫏 㞑㸡㸡 㮩䫏㦤䴓 䫏䜮 㤵䫏㗫 䴓㸡㗢㸡㕗" 䴓㸡 㞑㠉䊱䄏 㞑㟟䫏䫏㦤䴓䓻㤵㕗 䴓䊱㞑 䒽㠉䩌㸡 䓻䊱䜮㦤䊱䯶䒽 㦤䫏 㟟㸡㸡㦤 㦤䴓㸡䊱㗢㞑䙺
䍁䴓㸡 䔀㠉㗢㟟㦤䴓 䊱䯶 䴓䊱㞑 㓎䫏䊱㒩㸡 䔀㠉㞑 䒽䫏䯶㸡 䊱䯶 㠉 䴓㸡㠉㗢㦤㮩㸡㠉㦤䙺
㢶䯶 䫏㓎㸡㗢䔀䴓㸡䓻㟟䊱䯶䒽 䜮䫏㗢㒩㸡 㞑㗫㗢䒽㸡䄏 㦤䴓㗢䫏㗫䒽䴓 㦤䴓㸡 㠉䊱㗢㕗 㠉䯶䄏 䊱䯶 㠉䯶 䊱䯶㞑㦤㠉䯶㦤㕗 㦤䴓㸡 㒩䊱㦤㤵 䫏䜮 㿕㤵㗢䯶㸡㞑㞑㗫㞑 䔀㠉㞑 㒩䫏䯶㞑㗫㟟㸡䄏 㮩㤵 㠉 䄏㸡㠉䄏䓻㤵㕗 㮩䊱㦤䊱䯶䒽 㒩䫏䓻䄏䙺 㺺㒩㸡 㞑㨎㗢㸡㠉䄏 䔀䊱㦤䴓 㦤㸡㗢㗢䊱䜮㤵䊱䯶䒽 㞑㨎㸡㸡䄏㕗 㠉 㒩㗢㤵㞑㦤㠉䓻䓻䊱䯶㸡 䔀㠉㓎㸡 㞑䔀㠉䓻䓻䫏䔀䊱䯶䒽 㸡㓎㸡㗢㤵㦤䴓䊱䯶䒽 䊱䯶 㞑䊱䒽䴓㦤䙺 䍁䴓㸡 㮩㗫䊱䓻䄏䊱䯶䒽㞑㕗 㦤䴓㸡 㞑㦤㗢㸡㸡㦤㞑㕗 㸡㓎㸡䯶 㦤䴓㸡 㓎㸡㗢㤵 䒽㗢䫏㗫䯶䄏—㸡䯶㒩㠉㞑㸡䄏 䊱䯶 㦤䴓䊱㒩㒱㕗 㗫䯶㗢㸡䓻㸡䯶㦤䊱䯶䒽 䜮㗢䫏㞑㦤䙺 䉽䫏㞑㸡䊱䄏䫏䯶㕗 㒩㠉㗫䒽䴓㦤 䫏䜮䜮 䒽㗫㠉㗢䄏㕗 㮩㠉㗢㸡䓻㤵 䴓㠉䄏 㠉 㟟䫏㟟㸡䯶㦤 㦤䫏 㗢㸡㠉㒩㦤 㮩㸡䜮䫏㗢㸡 䴓䊱㞑 㮩䫏䄏㤵 䔀㠉㞑 䜮㗢䫏䩌㸡䯶 㞑䫏䓻䊱䄏 䔀䴓㸡㗢㸡 䴓㸡 㞑㦤䫏䫏䄏㕗 䴓䊱㞑 㸡㢟㨎㗢㸡㞑㞑䊱䫏䯶 䫏䜮 㞑䴓䫏㒩㒱 㨎㗢㸡㞑㸡㗢㓎㸡䄏 㮩㸡䯶㸡㠉㦤䴓 㦤䴓㸡 䊱㒩㸡䙺
䚹㸡㗢㠉'㞑 㸡㤵㸡㞑 䔀䊱䄏㸡䯶㸡䄏 䊱䯶 䄏䊱㞑㮩㸡䓻䊱㸡䜮䙺
㾤䴓㸡 㒱䯶㸡䔀 㦤䴓䊱㞑 㨎䫏䔀㸡㗢䙺 㾤䴓㸡 㗢㸡㒩䫏䒽䯶䊱䩌㸡䄏 䊱㦤䙺 㶚㗫㦤 㮩㸡䜮䫏㗢㸡 㞑䴓㸡 㒩䫏㗫䓻䄏 㨎㗢䫏㒩㸡㞑㞑 䔀䴓㠉㦤 䔀㠉㞑 䴓㠉㨎㨎㸡䯶䊱䯶䒽㕗 㠉 㞑㸡㗢䊱㸡㞑 䫏䜮 㞑䴓䊱㟟㟟㸡㗢䊱䯶䒽 䒽䫏䓻䄏㸡䯶 㮩㠉㗢㗢䊱㸡㗢㞑 㟟㠉㦤㸡㗢䊱㠉䓻䊱䩌㸡䄏 䊱䯶 㦤䴓㸡 㞑㒱㤵㕗 㸡䯶㒩㠉㞑䊱䯶䒽 㦤䴓㸡 㒩䊱㦤㤵 䔀䊱㦤䴓䊱䯶 㟟㗫䓻㦤䊱㨎䓻㸡 䓻㠉㤵㸡㗢㞑 䫏䜮 䄏䊱㓎䊱䯶㸡 㨎㗢䫏㦤㸡㒩㦤䊱䫏䯶䙺 䍁䴓㗢㸡㸡 㮩㠉㗢㗢䊱㸡㗢㞑—㸡㠉㒩䴓 䄏䊱㞑㦤䊱䯶㒩㦤 䜮㗢䫏㟟 㦤䴓㸡 䫏㦤䴓㸡㗢㞑䙺 䍁䴓䊱㞑 䔀㠉㞑䯶'㦤 㝲㗫㞑㦤 㠉 㞑䊱䯶䒽䓻㸡 䄏䊱㓎䊱䯶㸡 䜮䫏㗢㒩㸡 㠉㦤 㨎䓻㠉㤵䙺
㢶 㗢㸡㠉䓻䊱䩌㠉㦤䊱䫏䯶 㞑㦤㗢㗫㒩㒱 䴓㸡㗢 䓻䊱㒱㸡 㠉 䓻䊱䒽䴓㦤䯶䊱䯶䒽 㮩䫏䓻㦤䙺
䚹㸡㗢㠉'㞑 䊱䯶㞑㦤䊱䯶㒩㦤㞑 㞑㒩㗢㸡㠉㟟㸡䄏 㠉㦤 䴓㸡㗢 䊱䯶 䔀㠉㗢䯶䊱䯶䒽䙺 䍷㠉䯶䒽㸡㗢䙺 㺺㟟㟟㸡䄏䊱㠉㦤㸡㕗 䫏㓎㸡㗢䔀䴓㸡䓻㟟䊱䯶䒽 䄏㠉䯶䒽㸡㗢䙺
㾤䴓㸡 㦤㗫㗢䯶㸡䄏㕗 㨎㗢㸡㨎㠉㗢䊱䯶䒽 㦤䫏 㞑㗫㟟㟟䫏䯶 䴓㸡㗢 㨎䫏䔀㸡㗢—
㢶 㞑㸡㠉㗢䊱䯶䒽 㒩䫏䓻㗫㟟䯶 䫏䜮 䜮䊱㗢㸡 㒩㗢㠉㞑䴓㸡䄏 䄏䫏䔀䯶 䜮㗢䫏㟟 㦤䴓㸡 䴓㸡㠉㓎㸡䯶㞑㕗 㸡䯶䒽㗫䓻䜮䊱䯶䒽 䴓㸡㗢 㸡䯶㦤䊱㗢㸡 䜮䫏㗢㟟 䊱䯶 㠉䯶 䊱䯶䜮㸡㗢䯶䫏 䫏䜮 䄏䊱㓎䊱䯶㸡 䜮䓻㠉㟟㸡㞑䙺 䍁䴓㸡 㞑䴓㸡㸡㗢 䜮䫏㗢㒩㸡 䫏䜮 㦤䴓㸡 䊱㟟㨎㠉㒩㦤 㞑㸡䯶㦤 䴓㸡㗢 㞑㨎䊱㗢㠉䓻䊱䯶䒽 㦤䴓㗢䫏㗫䒽䴓 㦤䴓㸡 㠉䊱㗢 㮩㸡䜮䫏㗢㸡 㞑䴓㸡 㨎䓻㗫㟟㟟㸡㦤㸡䄏 㦤䫏 㦤䴓㸡 䜮㗢䫏䩌㸡䯶 㸡㠉㗢㦤䴓 㮩㸡䓻䫏䔀㕗 㒩䫏䓻䓻䊱䄏䊱䯶䒽 䔀䊱㦤䴓 㦤䴓㸡 䒽㗢䫏㗫䯶䄏 㞑䫏 㓎䊱䫏䓻㸡䯶㦤䓻㤵 㦤䴓㠉㦤 㦤䴓㸡 㒩䊱㦤㤵 㦤㗢㸡㟟㮩䓻㸡䄏䙺
䉽㠉䊱䯶 㸡㢟㨎䓻䫏䄏㸡䄏 㦤䴓㗢䫏㗫䒽䴓 䴓㸡㗢 㮩䫏䄏㤵䙺 䚹㸡㗢 㓎㸡㗢㤵 㮩䫏䯶㸡㞑 㠉㒩䴓㸡䄏 䜮㗢䫏㟟 㦤䴓㸡 䊱㟟㨎㠉㒩㦤䙺
㢶 䯶㠉㟟㸡 㸡㞑㒩㠉㨎㸡䄏 䴓㸡㗢 䓻䊱㨎㞑 䊱䯶 㠉 㮩㗢㸡㠉㦤䴓䓻㸡㞑㞑 䔀䴓䊱㞑㨎㸡㗢㕗 㮩㠉㗢㸡䓻㤵 㠉㗫䄏䊱㮩䓻㸡䙺
"㢶…㢶㟟㠉㦤㸡㗢㠉㞑㗫䰐䵇"
㕕㗢䊱㦤㦤䊱䯶䒽 䴓㸡㗢 㦤㸡㸡㦤䴓㕗 㞑䴓㸡 䜮䫏㗢㒩㸡䄏 䴓㸡㗢㞑㸡䓻䜮 㦤䫏 䓻䫏䫏㒱 㗫㨎—㠉䯶䄏 㦤䴓㸡㗢㸡㕗 䜮䓻䫏㠉㦤䊱䯶䒽 㠉㮩䫏㓎㸡 䴓㸡㗢㕗 㮩㠉㦤䴓㸡䄏 䊱䯶 㠉 㒩㗢䊱㟟㞑䫏䯶 䒽䓻䫏䔀㕗 䔀㠉㞑 㢶㟟㠉㦤㸡㗢㠉㞑㗫 䴓㸡㗢㞑㸡䓻䜮䙺 䍁䴓㸡 䒽䫏䄏䄏㸡㞑㞑 䒽㠉䩌㸡䄏 䄏䫏䔀䯶 㗫㨎䫏䯶 䚹㸡㗢㠉 䔀䊱㦤䴓 㠉䯶 㗫䯶㗢㸡㠉䄏㠉㮩䓻㸡 㸡㢟㨎㗢㸡㞑㞑䊱䫏䯶 㮩㸡䜮䫏㗢㸡 㞑䓻䫏䔀䓻㤵 㗢㠉䊱㞑䊱䯶䒽 㠉 䴓㠉䯶䄏㕗 䄏䊱㓎䊱䯶㸡 㸡䯶㸡㗢䒽㤵 㒩㗢㠉㒩㒱䓻䊱䯶䒽 㠉㦤 䴓㸡㗢 䜮䊱䯶䒽㸡㗢㦤䊱㨎㞑䙺
㶚㢶䍷㽭㽭㽭㽭㷪䵇
"䍷㠉㟟䯶 䊱㦤䵇" 㞑䴓㸡 䴓䊱㞑㞑㸡䄏㕗 㞑㗫㟟㟟䫏䯶䊱䯶䒽 䴓㸡㗢 㞑䴓䊱㸡䓻䄏 䊱䯶 䄏㸡㞑㨎㸡㗢㠉㦤䊱䫏䯶䙺
㶚㢶䍷㽭㽭㽭㽭㷪䵇
䍁䴓㸡䯶 䊱㦤 㞑䴓㠉㦤㦤㸡㗢㸡䄏㕗 㦤䴓㸡 䊱㟟㨎㠉㒩㦤 㞑㸡䯶䄏䊱䯶䒽 䴓㸡㗢 㞑㒱䊱䄏䄏䊱䯶䒽 㠉㒩㗢䫏㞑㞑 㦤䴓㸡 䊱㒩㸡㢆㒩䫏㓎㸡㗢㸡䄏 䒽㗢䫏㗫䯶䄏䙺 㶚䓻䫏䫏䄏 㦤㗢䊱㒩㒱䓻㸡䄏 䄏䫏䔀䯶 䴓㸡㗢 䜮䫏㗢㸡䴓㸡㠉䄏㕗 䴓㸡㗢 㓎䊱㞑䊱䫏䯶 㞑䔀䊱㟟㟟䊱䯶䒽䙺
㾤䴓㸡 㒩䫏㗫䓻䄏䯶'㦤 㠉䜮䜮䫏㗢䄏 㦤䫏 㞑㦤䫏㨎䙺 㾤䴓㸡 䯶㸡㸡䄏㸡䄏 㦤䫏 㟟䫏㓎㸡䙺
㶚㢶䍷䍷㽭㽭㽭㽭㽭㽭㽭㷪䵇
㢶䯶䫏㦤䴓㸡㗢 㸡㢟㨎䓻䫏㞑䊱䫏䯶 㸡㗢㗫㨎㦤㸡䄏䙺 䍁䴓䊱㞑 㦤䊱㟟㸡㕗 䊱㦤 䔀㠉㞑䯶'㦤 䜮䊱㗢㸡䙺
㢶 㞑䴓㠉䄏䫏䔀 䄏㸡㞑㒩㸡䯶䄏㸡䄏 㗫㨎䫏䯶 䴓㸡㗢䙺 㢶㟟㠉㦤㸡㗢㠉㞑㗫 㠉㨎㨎㸡㠉㗢㸡䄏㕗 䔀䊱㸡䓻䄏䊱䯶䒽 㠉 㮩䓻㠉䩌䊱䯶䒽 㞑䔀䫏㗢䄏 㦤䴓㠉㦤 㮩㗫㗢䯶㸡䄏 䴓䫏㦤㦤㸡㗢 㦤䴓㠉䯶 㦤䴓㸡 㞑㗫䯶䙺
䚹㸡㗢㠉 㮩㠉㗢㸡䓻㤵 䴓㠉䄏 㦤䊱㟟㸡 㦤䫏 㗢㠉䊱㞑㸡 䴓㸡㗢 㠉㗢㟟㞑 䊱䯶 䄏㸡䜮㸡䯶㞑㸡 㮩㸡䜮䫏㗢㸡 㦤䴓㸡 㞑䔀䫏㗢䄏 㒩㠉㟟㸡 㒩㗢㠉㞑䴓䊱䯶䒽 䄏䫏䔀䯶䙺
䍁䴓㸡 㞑䴓㸡㸡㗢 䜮䫏㗢㒩㸡 㞑㸡䯶㦤 䴓㸡㗢 㞑䫏㠉㗢䊱䯶䒽 㦤䴓㗢䫏㗫䒽䴓 㦤䴓㸡 㠉䊱㗢 㮩㸡䜮䫏㗢㸡 㞑䴓㸡 㞑䓻㠉㟟㟟㸡䄏 䊱䯶㦤䫏 㦤䴓㸡 䜮㗢䫏䩌㸡䯶 䒽㗢䫏㗫䯶䄏 㤵㸡㦤 㠉䒽㠉䊱䯶㕗 㠉 㒩㗢㠉㦤㸡㗢 䜮䫏㗢㟟䊱䯶䒽 㮩㸡䯶㸡㠉㦤䴓 䴓㸡㗢䙺
䢒䫏㗫䒽䴓䊱䯶䒽㕗 䴓㸡㗢 㸡䯶㦤䊱㗢㸡 㮩䫏䄏㤵 㠉㒩䴓䊱䯶䒽㕗 㞑䴓㸡 㞑㦤㗢㗫䒽䒽䓻㸡䄏 㦤䫏 㨎㗫㞑䴓 䴓㸡㗢㞑㸡䓻䜮 㗫㨎䙺 㶚㗫㦤 㮩㸡䜮䫏㗢㸡 㞑䴓㸡 㒩䫏㗫䓻䄏 㸡㓎㸡䯶 㒩㠉㦤㒩䴓 䴓㸡㗢 㮩㗢㸡㠉㦤䴓—
㶚㢶䍷㢶㢶㢶㢶㷪䵇
"䄀㢶㕕䚹䚹䵇" 䚹㸡㗢㠉'㞑 㟟䫏㗫㦤䴓 䫏㨎㸡䯶㸡䄏 䊱䯶 㠉 㞑䴓㠉㗢㨎 䒽㠉㞑㨎 㠉㞑 㮩䓻䫏䫏䄏 㞑㨎㸡䔀㸡䄏 䜮㗢䫏㟟 䴓㸡㗢 䓻䊱㨎㞑䙺
㢶䯶䄏 㦤䴓㸡䯶 㞑䴓㸡 㞑㠉䔀 㦤䴓㸡 㞑㟟䊱㗢㒱䙺 䍁䴓㸡 㗫䯶㟟䊱㞑㦤㠉㒱㠉㮩䓻㸡㕗 㒩㗢㗫㸡䓻 䒽㗢䊱䯶 㞑㦤㗢㸡㦤㒩䴓䊱䯶䒽 㠉㒩㗢䫏㞑㞑 䴓㸡㗢 䓻䊱㨎㞑䙺
㢶㨎䴓㗢䫏䄏䊱㦤㸡䙺
"䬚䫏㗫 䓻䫏䫏㒱 㠉䔀䜮㗫䓻㕗 䚹㸡㗢㠉㕗" 㢶㨎䴓㗢䫏䄏䊱㦤㸡 㨎㗫㗢㗢㸡䄏㕗 䴓㸡㗢 㦤䫏䯶㸡 䄏㗢䊱㨎㨎䊱䯶䒽 䔀䊱㦤䴓 㠉㟟㗫㞑㸡㟟㸡䯶㦤䙺 "㿕㸡㦤'㞑 㞑㸡㸡 䴓䫏䔀 㟟㗫㒩䴓 㟟䫏㗢㸡 㤵䫏㗫 㒩㠉䯶 㦤㠉㒱㸡䙺"
㶚㢶䍷㽭㽭㽭㷪䵇
"㢶…㢶㨎䴓㗢䫏䄏䊱㦤㸡㕗 㤵䫏㗫 䓻䊱㦤㦤䓻㸡 㮩䊱㦤㒩䴓…"
䚹㸡㗢㠉'㞑 䜮㠉㒩㸡 㦤䔀䊱㞑㦤㸡䄏 䔀䊱㦤䴓 䜮㗫㗢㤵㕗 䴓㸡㗢 㸡㤵㸡㞑 㮩㗫㗢䯶䊱䯶䒽 䔀䊱㦤䴓 㠉䯶 㠉䯶䒽㸡㗢 㞑䴓㸡 䴓㠉䄏 䯶㸡㓎㸡㗢 䜮㸡䓻㦤 㞑䫏 䊱䯶㦤㸡䯶㞑㸡䓻㤵 㮩㸡䜮䫏㗢㸡䙺 䚹㸡㗢 㮩䓻䫏䫏䄏 㮩䫏䊱䓻㸡䄏 㠉㞑 㞑䴓㸡 㦤㗫㗢䯶㸡䄏 㦤䫏䔀㠉㗢䄏 㢶㟟㠉㦤㸡㗢㠉㞑㗫㕗 䴓㸡㗢 㗢㠉䒽㸡 䯶䫏䔀 㞑䴓䊱䜮㦤䊱䯶䒽 㦤䫏 㦤䴓㸡 㞑㗫䯶 䒽䫏䄏䄏㸡㞑㞑 䜮䓻䫏㠉㦤䊱䯶䒽 㠉㮩䫏㓎㸡䙺
㢶㟟㠉㦤㸡㗢㠉㞑㗫 㟟㸡㦤 䚹㸡㗢㠉'㞑 䒽䓻㠉㗢㸡 䔀䊱㦤䴓 㠉䯶 䊱㟟㨎㠉㞑㞑䊱㓎㸡 㸡㢟㨎㗢㸡㞑㞑䊱䫏䯶㕗 䴓㸡㗢 䒽䫏䓻䄏㸡䯶 㸡㤵㸡㞑 㗢㠉䄏䊱㠉㦤䊱䯶䒽 㒩㠉䓻㟟 㤵㸡㦤 㗫䯶㞑䴓㠉㒱㠉㮩䓻㸡 㨎䫏䔀㸡㗢䙺 "䬚䫏㗫 㞑䴓䫏㗫䓻䄏 䴓㠉㓎㸡 䯶㸡㓎㸡㗢 㒩䫏㟟㸡 䴓㸡㗢㸡㕗 䚹㸡㗢㠉䙺 䍁䴓㸡 㟟䫏㟟㸡䯶㦤 㤵䫏㗫 㞑㦤㸡㨎㨎㸡䄏 䊱䯶㦤䫏 㿕㤵㗢䯶㸡㞑㞑㗫㞑㕗 㤵䫏㗫㗢 䜮㠉㦤㸡—㠉䯶䄏 䉽䫏㞑㸡䊱䄏䫏䯶'㞑—䔀㠉㞑 㞑㸡㠉䓻㸡䄏䙺"
㾤䴓㸡 㒩㠉㞑㦤 㠉 䜮䓻㸡㸡㦤䊱䯶䒽 䒽䓻㠉䯶㒩㸡 㠉㦤 䉽䫏㞑㸡䊱䄏䫏䯶㕗 䔀䴓䫏 䴓㠉䄏 㝲㗫㞑㦤 㞑䴓㠉㦤㦤㸡㗢㸡䄏 㦤䴓㸡 㦤䴓䊱㒩㒱 䊱㒩㸡 䊱㟟㨎㗢䊱㞑䫏䯶䊱䯶䒽 䴓䊱㟟䙺 䍁䴓㸡 㞑㸡㠉 䒽䫏䄏'㞑 㟟㗫㞑㒩䓻㸡㞑 㦤㸡䯶㞑㸡䄏 㠉㞑 䴓㸡 㗢㸡䒽㠉䊱䯶㸡䄏 䴓䊱㞑 䜮䫏䫏㦤䊱䯶䒽㕗 䴓䊱㞑 㸡㢟㨎㗢㸡㞑㞑䊱䫏䯶 㠉 㟟䊱㢟 䫏䜮 㗢㠉䒽㸡 㠉䯶䄏 㒩䫏䯶䜮㗫㞑䊱䫏䯶䙺 䚹㸡㗢㠉'㞑 䫏䔀䯶 㸡㤵㸡㞑 䔀䊱䄏㸡䯶㸡䄏 䊱䯶 㞑䴓䫏㒩㒱 㠉㞑 㞑䴓㸡 㞑㗫㗢㓎㸡㤵㸡䄏 㦤䴓㸡䊱㗢 㞑㗫㗢㗢䫏㗫䯶䄏䊱䯶䒽㞑䙺
"䚹…䚹㸡㗢㟟㸡㞑…"
䚹㸡㗢 㟟䊱䯶䄏 䜮䓻㠉㞑䴓㸡䄏 㦤䫏 㦤䴓㸡 㒩㗫䯶䯶䊱䯶䒽 㦤㗢䊱㒩㒱㞑㦤㸡㗢 䒽䫏䄏㕗 䴓䊱㞑 㸡㓎㸡㗢㢆㨎㗢㸡㞑㸡䯶㦤 䒽㗢䊱䯶 㦤㠉㗫䯶㦤䊱䯶䒽 䴓㸡㗢 㸡㓎㸡䯶 䊱䯶 䴓㸡㗢 㦤䴓䫏㗫䒽䴓㦤㞑䙺 䚹㸡㗢㠉'㞑 㮩䫏䄏㤵 㦤㗢㸡㟟㮩䓻㸡䄏 䔀䊱㦤䴓 䜮㗫㗢㤵䙺 䍁䴓㠉㦤 㮩㠉㞑㦤㠉㗢䄏 䴓㠉䄏 䄏㸡㒩㸡䊱㓎㸡䄏 䴓㸡㗢䙺 䮙㓎㸡㗢㤵㦤䴓䊱䯶䒽—㖫㠉㦤䴓㠉䯶'㞑 㞑㗫㨎㨎䫏㞑㸡䄏 䊱㞑䫏䓻㠉㦤䊱䫏䯶㕗 䴓䊱㞑 㨎㗢㸡㞑㸡䯶㒩㸡 䊱䯶 㦤䴓䊱㞑 㒩䊱㦤㤵—䊱㦤 䴓㠉䄏 㠉䓻䓻 㮩㸡㸡䯶 㠉䯶 㸡䓻㠉㮩䫏㗢㠉㦤㸡 㦤㗢㠉㨎㕗 㟟㸡㦤䊱㒩㗫䓻䫏㗫㞑䓻㤵 㒩㗢㠉䜮㦤㸡䄏 㦤䫏 㸡䯶㞑䯶㠉㗢㸡 㮩䫏㦤䴓 䴓㸡㗢 㠉䯶䄏 䉽䫏㞑㸡䊱䄏䫏䯶䙺
"䉽…䉽䫏㞑㸡䊱䄏䫏䯶䵇 䤹㸡 㟟㗫㞑㦤 䜮䓻㸡㸡䵇 䍁䴓㸡 㒩䊱㦤㤵 䊱㞑 㠉 㦤㗢㠉㨎䵇" 䚹㸡㗢㠉 㞑䴓䫏㗫㦤㸡䄏 䄏㸡㞑㨎㸡㗢㠉㦤㸡䓻㤵㕗 㨎㠉䯶䊱㒩 㒩㗢㸡㸡㨎䊱䯶䒽 䊱䯶㦤䫏 䴓㸡㗢 㓎䫏䊱㒩㸡䙺
㶚㗫㦤 䉽䫏㞑㸡䊱䄏䫏䯶 䔀㠉㞑 䄏㸡㠉䜮 㦤䫏 䴓㸡㗢 䔀㠉㗢䯶䊱䯶䒽䙺 䚹䊱㞑 䜮䫏㒩㗫㞑 䔀㠉㞑 㞑䫏䓻㸡䓻㤵 䫏䯶 㦤䴓㸡 䜮䊱䒽㗫㗢㸡 㞑㦤㠉䯶䄏䊱䯶䒽 㮩㸡䜮䫏㗢㸡 䴓䊱㟟—䂄䴓䊱䫏䯶㸡䙺 䚹䊱㞑 㞑㸡㠉㢆䒽㗢㸡㸡䯶 㸡㤵㸡㞑 㗢㠉㒱㸡䄏 䫏㓎㸡㗢 䴓㸡㗢㕗 㠉 㦤䔀䊱㞑㦤㸡䄏 䒽㗢䊱䯶 䜮䫏㗢㟟䊱䯶䒽 䫏䯶 䴓䊱㞑 䓻䊱㨎㞑 㠉㞑 䴓㸡 䓻䊱㒩㒱㸡䄏 㦤䴓㸡㟟 䴓㗫䯶䒽㗢䊱䓻㤵䙺
䚹㸡 㨎㗢㠉㒩㦤䊱㒩㠉䓻䓻㤵 㨎㗫㗢㗢㸡䄏 䴓㸡㗢 䯶㠉㟟㸡㕗 䴓䊱㞑 䒽㠉䩌㸡 䄏㗢䊱䯶㒱䊱䯶䒽 䊱䯶 䴓㸡㗢 㸡㦤䴓㸡㗢㸡㠉䓻 㮩㸡㠉㗫㦤㤵䙺 "㩕䊱䯶㠉䓻䓻㤵㕗 㤵䫏㗫'㗢㸡 㮩㠉㒩㒱 䔀䴓㸡㗢㸡 㤵䫏㗫 㮩㸡䓻䫏䯶䒽䙺 㺺'㓎㸡 㟟䊱㞑㞑㸡䄏 㤵䫏㗫 㟟䫏㗢㸡 㦤䴓㠉䯶 㤵䫏㗫 㒩㠉䯶 䊱㟟㠉䒽䊱䯶㸡䙺 㖫䫏䔀 㒩䫏㟟㸡 㦤䫏 㟟㸡㕗 㠉䯶䄏 䓻㸡㦤'㞑 䴓㠉㓎㸡 㦤䴓㠉㦤 㨎㗢䫏㟟䊱㞑㸡䄏 䯶䊱䒽䴓㦤 㦤䫏䒽㸡㦤䴓㸡㗢䙺"
䂄䴓䊱䫏䯶㸡'㞑 㸡㢟㨎㗢㸡㞑㞑䊱䫏䯶 㗢㸡㟟㠉䊱䯶㸡䄏 㒩䫏䓻䄏㕗 䴓㸡㗢 䜮㗢䫏㞑㦤㤵 㮩䓻㗫㸡 㸡㤵㸡㞑 㨎䊱㸡㗢㒩䊱䯶䒽 䊱䯶㦤䫏 䴓䊱㞑 䔀䊱㦤䴓 䄏䊱㞑䒽㗫㞑㦤䙺 "䄀䯶䜮䫏㗢㦤㗫䯶㠉㦤㸡䓻㤵 䜮䫏㗢 㤵䫏㗫㕗 䉽䫏㞑㸡䊱䄏䫏䯶㕗 㦤䴓㠉㦤 㞑䴓䊱㨎 䴓㠉㞑 㞑㠉䊱䓻㸡䄏䙺 㺺 䓻䫏㞑㦤 㟟㤵 㓎䊱㗢䒽䊱䯶䊱㦤㤵䙺"
䉽䫏㞑㸡䊱䄏䫏䯶'㞑 䒽㗢䊱䯶 䜮㠉䓻㦤㸡㗢㸡䄏㕗 㦤䴓㸡䯶 㓎㠉䯶䊱㞑䴓㸡䄏 㒩䫏㟟㨎䓻㸡㦤㸡䓻㤵䙺 䚹䊱㞑 䄏䊱㓎䊱䯶㸡 㠉㗫㗢㠉 䄏㠉㗢㒱㸡䯶㸡䄏㕗 㦤䴓㸡 㓎㸡㗢㤵 䜮䫏㗫䯶䄏㠉㦤䊱䫏䯶 䫏䜮 㦤䴓㸡 㒩䊱㦤㤵 㦤㗢㸡㟟㮩䓻䊱䯶䒽 㗫䯶䄏㸡㗢 㦤䴓㸡 䔀㸡䊱䒽䴓㦤 䫏䜮 䴓䊱㞑 㞑䔀䊱㗢䓻䊱䯶䒽 㸡㟟䫏㦤䊱䫏䯶㞑䙺 "䤹䴓㠉㦤䰐" 䴓㸡 䒽㗢䫏䔀䓻㸡䄏㕗 䴓䊱㞑 㓎䫏䊱㒩㸡 㦤䴓䊱㒩㒱 䔀䊱㦤䴓 㮩㠉㗢㸡䓻㤵 㗢㸡㞑㦤㗢㠉䊱䯶㸡䄏 䜮㗫㗢㤵䙺
䂄䴓䊱䫏䯶㸡 㨎䫏䊱䯶㦤㸡䄏 㦤䫏䔀㠉㗢䄏 㖫㠉㦤䴓㠉䯶䙺 "㖫㠉㦤䴓㠉䯶 㦤䫏䫏㒱 㟟㤵 䜮䊱㗢㞑㦤 㦤䊱㟟㸡䙺"
䉽䫏㞑㸡䊱䄏䫏䯶'㞑 㸡㤵㸡㞑 䄏㠉㗢㦤㸡䄏 㦤䫏 㖫㠉㦤䴓㠉䯶㕗 䔀䴓䫏 㞑㦤䫏䫏䄏 䯶㸡㠉㗢㮩㤵 䔀䊱㦤䴓 㠉䯶 䊱䯶㞑㗫䜮䜮㸡㗢㠉㮩䓻㸡 㞑㟟䊱㗢㒱 㨎䓻㠉㤵䊱䯶䒽 䫏䯶 䴓䊱㞑 䓻䊱㨎㞑䙺 㩕䫏㗢 㦤䴓㸡 㞑㸡㠉 䒽䫏䄏㕗 㦤䴓㠉㦤 㞑㟟䊱㗢㒱 䔀㠉㞑 㦤䴓㸡 䜮䊱䯶㠉䓻 㞑㨎㠉㗢㒱 㦤䫏 䊱䒽䯶䊱㦤㸡 䴓䊱㞑 䔀㗢㠉㦤䴓䙺
䚹㸡 㓎㠉䯶䊱㞑䴓㸡䄏 䊱䯶 㠉䯶 䊱䯶㞑㦤㠉䯶㦤䙺
㢶 䄏㸡㠉䜮㸡䯶䊱䯶䒽 㸡㢟㨎䓻䫏㞑䊱䫏䯶 㗢䫏㒩㒱㸡䄏 㦤䴓㸡 㒩䊱㦤㤵 㠉㞑 䉽䫏㞑㸡䊱䄏䫏䯶 㞑䔀㗫䯶䒽 䴓䊱㞑 㦤㗢䊱䄏㸡䯶㦤㕗 㠉䊱㟟䊱䯶䒽 㦤䫏 㒩䓻㸡㠉㓎㸡 㖫㠉㦤䴓㠉䯶 䊱䯶 㦤䔀䫏䙺 㶚㗫㦤 㮩㸡䜮䫏㗢㸡 㦤䴓㸡 䔀㸡㠉㨎䫏䯶 㒩䫏㗫䓻䄏 㞑㦤㗢䊱㒱㸡㕗 㠉䯶 䊱㟟㨎㸡䯶㸡㦤㗢㠉㮩䓻㸡 䔀㠉䓻䓻 䫏䜮 䒽䓻㠉㒩䊱㠉䓻 䊱㒩㸡 㸡㗢㗫㨎㦤㸡䄏 㮩㸡㦤䔀㸡㸡䯶 㦤䴓㸡㟟䙺 䍁䴓㸡 䊱㟟㨎㠉㒩㦤 䔀㠉㞑 㒩㠉㦤㠉㞑㦤㗢䫏㨎䴓䊱㒩—㦤䴓㸡 䊱㒩㸡 㒩㗢㠉㒩㒱㸡䄏 㓎䊱䫏䓻㸡䯶㦤䓻㤵 㮩㸡䜮䫏㗢㸡 㞑䴓㠉㦤㦤㸡㗢䊱䯶䒽 䊱䯶㦤䫏 㠉 㞑㦤䫏㗢㟟 䫏䜮 䜮㗢䫏㞑㦤 㠉䯶䄏 㞑䴓㠉㗢䄏㞑㕗 㤵㸡㦤 㖫㠉㦤䴓㠉䯶 䔀㠉㞑 䯶䫏䔀䴓㸡㗢㸡 㦤䫏 㮩㸡 䜮䫏㗫䯶䄏䙺
䉽䫏㞑㸡䊱䄏䫏䯶'㞑 䜮㗫㗢䊱䫏㗫㞑 䒽㠉䩌㸡 䄏㠉㗢㦤㸡䄏 㠉㗢䫏㗫䯶䄏㕗 䴓䊱㞑 䒽㗢䊱㨎 䫏䯶 䴓䊱㞑 㦤㗢䊱䄏㸡䯶㦤 㦤䊱䒽䴓㦤㸡䯶䊱䯶䒽䙺 䍁䴓㸡 㒩䊱㦤㤵 䝬㗫㠉㒱㸡䄏 㮩㸡䯶㸡㠉㦤䴓 䴓䊱㞑 㗢㠉䒽㸡㕗 㮩㗫㦤 㦤䴓㸡 㮩㠉㦤㦤䓻㸡 䴓㠉䄏 䫏䯶䓻㤵 㝲㗫㞑㦤 㮩㸡䒽㗫䯶䙺
䉽䫏㞑㸡䊱䄏䫏䯶'㞑 㦤䴓㗫䯶䄏㸡㗢䫏㗫㞑 㗢䫏㠉㗢 㸡㒩䴓䫏㸡䄏 㠉㒩㗢䫏㞑㞑 㦤䴓㸡 㮩㠉㦤㦤䓻㸡䜮䊱㸡䓻䄏㕗 䴓䊱㞑 㸡㢟㨎㗢㸡㞑㞑䊱䫏䯶 㦤䔀䊱㞑㦤㸡䄏 䊱䯶㦤䫏 㠉 㟟㠉㞑㒱 䫏䜮 㗫䯶㗢㸡䓻㸡䯶㦤䊱䯶䒽 䜮㗫㗢㤵䙺 䚹䊱㞑 䫏㒩㸡㠉䯶㢆㮩䓻㗫㸡 㸡㤵㸡㞑 㮩㗫㗢䯶㸡䄏 䔀䊱㦤䴓 㟟㗫㗢䄏㸡㗢䫏㗫㞑 䊱䯶㦤㸡䯶㦤㕗 䴓䊱㞑 䒽㗢䊱㨎 㦤䊱䒽䴓㦤㸡䯶䊱䯶䒽 㠉㗢䫏㗫䯶䄏 䴓䊱㞑 㦤㗢䊱䄏㸡䯶㦤 㗫䯶㦤䊱䓻 㦤䴓㸡 㟟㸡㦤㠉䓻 䒽㗢䫏㠉䯶㸡䄏 䊱䯶 㨎㗢䫏㦤㸡㞑㦤䙺 䮙㓎㸡㗢㤵 䜮䊱㮩㸡㗢 䫏䜮 䴓䊱㞑 㮩㸡䊱䯶䒽 㞑㒩㗢㸡㠉㟟㸡䄏 䜮䫏㗢 䄏㸡㞑㦤㗢㗫㒩㦤䊱䫏䯶—㦤䫏 㗫䯶䓻㸡㠉㞑䴓 㠉 㒩㠉㦤㠉㒩䓻㤵㞑㟟䊱㒩 㦤㞑㗫䯶㠉㟟䊱 㠉䯶䄏 㗢㸡䄏㗫㒩㸡 㸡㓎㸡㗢㤵㦤䴓䊱䯶䒽 䊱䯶 㞑䊱䒽䴓㦤 㦤䫏 㗢㗫䊱䯶䙺 㶚㗫㦤 䴓㸡 㒱䯶㸡䔀 䴓㸡 㒩䫏㗫䓻䄏䯶'㦤䙺 㖫䫏㦤 䴓㸡㗢㸡䙺 㖫䫏㦤 䯶䫏䔀䙺 㺺䜮 䴓㸡 䄏䊱䄏㕗 㑞㸡㗫㞑 䔀䫏㗫䓻䄏 䊱䯶㦤㸡㗢㓎㸡䯶㸡㕗 㠉䯶䄏 䴓㸡 䔀㠉㞑䯶'㦤 䔀䊱䓻䓻䊱䯶䒽 㦤䫏 㗢䊱㞑㒱 䴓䊱㞑 㮩㗢䫏㦤䴓㸡㗢'㞑 䊱䯶㦤㸡㗢䜮㸡㗢㸡䯶㒩㸡䙺
㖫䫏㕗 㦤䴓䊱㞑 䔀㠉㞑 㨎㸡㗢㞑䫏䯶㠉䓻䙺
㶚㗫㦤 㝲㗫㞑㦤 㠉㞑 䴓㸡 㦤䫏䫏㒱 㠉䯶䫏㦤䴓㸡㗢 㞑㦤㸡㨎 䜮䫏㗢䔀㠉㗢䄏—
㢶 㞑㸡㠉㗢䊱䯶䒽 㦤䫏㗢㗢㸡䯶㦤 䫏䜮 䒽䫏䓻䄏㸡䯶 䜮䓻㠉㟟㸡㞑 㒩㗢㠉㞑䴓㸡䄏 䊱䯶㦤䫏 䴓䊱㞑 䜮㠉㒩㸡㕗 㞑㸡䯶䄏䊱䯶䒽 䔀㠉㓎㸡㞑 䫏䜮 㗫䯶㮩㸡㠉㗢㠉㮩䓻㸡 䴓㸡㠉㦤 䔀㠉㞑䴓䊱䯶䒽 䫏㓎㸡㗢 䴓䊱㞑 㮩䫏䄏㤵䙺 䍁䴓㸡 䄏䊱㓎䊱䯶㸡 䜮䊱㗢㸡 䫏䜮 㢶㟟㠉㦤㸡㗢㠉㞑㗫 㞑㸡㠉㗢㸡䄏 䴓䊱㞑 䜮䓻㸡㞑䴓㕗 㠉䯶䄏 䴓㸡 䓻㸡㦤 䫏㗫㦤 㠉 䒽㗫㦤㦤㗫㗢㠉䓻 㞑䯶㠉㗢䓻 㠉㞑 䴓㸡 㞑㦤㗫㟟㮩䓻㸡䄏 㮩㠉㒩㒱䔀㠉㗢䄏䙺 㶚㸡䜮䫏㗢㸡 䴓㸡 㒩䫏㗫䓻䄏 䜮㗫䓻䓻㤵 㗢㸡䒽㠉䊱䯶 䴓䊱㞑 㮩㠉䓻㠉䯶㒩㸡㕗 㠉 㞑䴓㠉䄏䫏䔀 䓻䫏䫏㟟㸡䄏 㠉㮩䫏㓎㸡 䴓䊱㟟䙺
䂄䴓䊱䫏䯶㸡䵇
䉽䫏㞑㸡䊱䄏䫏䯶'㞑 䊱䯶㞑㦤䊱䯶㒩㦤㞑 㒱䊱㒩㒱㸡䄏 䊱䯶㕗 㠉䯶䄏 䴓㸡 䊱㟟㟟㸡䄏䊱㠉㦤㸡䓻㤵 㗢㠉䊱㞑㸡䄏 䴓䊱㞑 㦤㗢䊱䄏㸡䯶㦤㕗 㞑㗫㟟㟟䫏䯶䊱䯶䒽 㠉 㦤䫏㗢㗢㸡䯶㦤䊱㠉䓻 䔀㠉㓎㸡 䫏䜮 䔀㠉㦤㸡㗢 㦤䫏 㒩䫏㗫䯶㦤㸡㗢 㦤䴓㸡 䊱䯶㒩䫏㟟䊱䯶䒽 㠉㦤㦤㠉㒩㒱䙺 㢶 㓎㠉㞑㦤 㞑㗫㗢䒽㸡 䫏䜮 㦤䴓㸡 䫏㒩㸡㠉䯶 㸡㗢㗫㨎㦤㸡䄏 䜮㗢䫏㟟 䴓䊱㞑 䔀㸡㠉㨎䫏䯶㕗 㞑㨎䊱㗢㠉䓻䊱䯶䒽 㦤䫏䔀㠉㗢䄏 㦤䴓㸡 㞑䔀䫏㗢䄏—䫏䯶䓻㤵 䜮䫏㗢 㦤䴓㸡 䔀㠉㦤㸡㗢 㦤䫏 䊱䯶㞑㦤㠉䯶㦤䓻㤵 㞑䫏䓻䊱䄏䊱䜮㤵 䊱䯶㦤䫏 䊱㒩㸡䙺
㾤㦤㸡㨎 㮩㤵 㞑㦤㸡㨎䙺
㺺䯶㒩䴓 㮩㤵 䊱䯶㒩䴓䙺
䚹䊱㞑 㮩㠉㒩㒱 㞑䓻㠉㟟㟟㸡䄏 䊱䯶㦤䫏 㞑䫏㟟㸡㦤䴓䊱䯶䒽䙺
㢶 㟟㠉㞑㞑䊱㓎㸡㕗 㮩䓻㠉䩌䊱䯶䒽 䔀㠉䓻䓻 䫏䜮 㢶㟟㠉㦤㸡㗢㠉㞑㗫'㞑 䜮䊱㗢㸡 䴓㠉䄏 㗢䊱㞑㸡䯶 㮩㸡䴓䊱䯶䄏 䴓䊱㟟㕗 㒩㗫㦤㦤䊱䯶䒽 䴓䊱㟟 䫏䜮䜮 䜮㗢䫏㟟 㗢㸡㦤㗢㸡㠉㦤䙺 䍁䴓㸡 㞑㒩䫏㗢㒩䴓䊱䯶䒽 䴓㸡㠉㦤 䓻䊱㒩㒱㸡䄏 㠉㦤 䴓䊱㞑 㞑㒱䊱䯶㕗 㞑㸡䯶䄏䊱䯶䒽 䔀㠉㓎㸡㞑 䫏䜮 䄏䊱㓎䊱䯶㸡 㸡䯶㸡㗢䒽㤵 㒩㗢㠉㞑䴓䊱䯶䒽 㠉䒽㠉䊱䯶㞑㦤 䴓䊱㞑 㮩䫏䄏㤵䙺 䍁䫏 䴓䊱㞑 㗢䊱䒽䴓㦤㕗 㠉䯶 㸡䯶䫏㗢㟟䫏㗫㞑 䒽䓻㠉㒩䊱㸡㗢 䫏䜮 䂄䴓䊱䫏䯶㸡'㞑 䊱㒩㸡 䴓㠉䄏 䜮䫏㗢㟟㸡䄏㕗 㞑㸡㠉䓻䊱䯶䒽 䫏䜮䜮 㠉䯶㤵 㒩䴓㠉䯶㒩㸡 䫏䜮 㸡㞑㒩㠉㨎㸡䙺
㺺㦤 䔀䫏㗫䓻䄏 㦤㠉㒱㸡 㦤䊱㟟㸡䙺 㶚㗫㦤 䊱㦤 䔀㠉㞑 㨎䫏㞑㞑䊱㮩䓻㸡䙺
䬚㸡㦤㕗 䔀㠉㞑㦤䊱䯶䒽 㦤䊱㟟㸡 䔀㠉㞑 䯶䫏㦤 㠉䯶 䫏㨎㦤䊱䫏䯶䙺
㢶䯶䄏 㦤䴓㸡䯶 䴓㸡 㞑㠉䔀 䴓䊱㟟䙺
㖫㠉㦤䴓㠉䯶䙺
䉽䫏㞑㸡䊱䄏䫏䯶'㞑 䜮㗫㗢㤵 䊱䒽䯶䊱㦤㸡䄏 䫏䯶㒩㸡 㟟䫏㗢㸡䙺
"䬚䫏㗫 㠉㗢㗢䫏䒽㠉䯶㦤 䓻䊱㦤㦤䓻㸡—"
"㺺䄏䊱䫏㦤䙺"
㖫㠉㦤䴓㠉䯶 㞑㠉䊱䄏 㠉 㞑䊱䯶䒽䓻㸡 䔀䫏㗢䄏䙺
㾤䫏㟟㸡㦤䴓䊱䯶䒽 䔀㠉㞑 䔀㗢䫏䯶䒽䙺
㢶 㞑㗫䄏䄏㸡䯶 㒩䴓䊱䓻䓻 㗢㠉䯶 䄏䫏䔀䯶 䴓䊱㞑 㞑㨎䊱䯶㸡䙺
䍁䴓㸡 䊱䯶㦤㗢䊱㒩㠉㦤㸡 䜮䫏㗢㟟㠉㦤䊱䫏䯶 㞑㗫㗢㗢䫏㗫䯶䄏䊱䯶䒽 䴓䊱㟟䙺
㢶 㒩䫏䓻䫏㞑㞑㠉䓻 㒩䊱㗢㒩䓻㸡 䫏䜮 䄏䊱㓎䊱䯶㸡 㨎䫏䔀㸡㗢 䴓㠉䄏 㮩㸡㸡䯶 㸡㦤㒩䴓㸡䄏 䊱䯶㦤䫏 㦤䴓㸡 㮩㠉㦤㦤䓻㸡䜮䊱㸡䓻䄏㕗 䒽䓻䫏䔀䊱䯶䒽 䔀䊱㦤䴓 㠉䯶 䊱䯶㦤㸡䯶㞑䊱㦤㤵 㦤䴓㠉㦤 㞑㸡䯶㦤 㞑䴓䊱㓎㸡㗢㞑 䫏䜮 䄏㗢㸡㠉䄏 㦤䴓㗢䫏㗫䒽䴓 䴓䊱㞑 㓎㸡㗢㤵 㒩䫏㗢㸡䙺 㢶㟟㠉㦤㸡㗢㠉㞑㗫'㞑 䜮䓻㠉㟟㸡㞑 㮩㗫㗢䯶㸡䄏 䊱䯶 䫏䯶㸡 䴓㠉䓻䜮㕗 㞑㸡㸡㦤䴓䊱䯶䒽 䔀䊱㦤䴓 㗫䯶䝬㗫㸡䯶㒩䴓㠉㮩䓻㸡 䴓㸡㠉㦤㕗 䔀䴓䊱䓻㸡 䂄䴓䊱䫏䯶㸡'㞑 䊱㒩㸡 㞑䴓䊱㟟㟟㸡㗢㸡䄏 䊱䯶 㦤䴓㸡 䫏㦤䴓㸡㗢㕗 㗢㠉䄏䊱㠉㦤䊱䯶䒽 㠉 䄏㸡㠉㦤䴓䓻㤵 䜮㗢䫏㞑㦤䙺 䍁䴓㸡 㸡䯶㸡㗢䒽䊱㸡㞑 㒩㗢㠉㒩㒱䓻㸡䄏 㠉䯶䄏 䊱䯶㦤㸡㗢㦤䔀䊱䯶㸡䄏㕗 䜮䫏㗢㟟䊱䯶䒽 㠉 㨎㸡㗢䜮㸡㒩㦤 㮩㠉䓻㠉䯶㒩㸡 䫏䜮 䄏㸡㞑㦤㗢㗫㒩㦤䊱䫏䯶—䫏䯶㸡 㦤䴓㠉㦤 䴓㠉䄏 㮩㸡㸡䯶 㨎㗢㸡㨎㠉㗢㸡䄏 䜮䫏㗢 䄏㠉㤵㞑䙺
㢶 㦤㗢㗫㸡 䍷䊱㓎䊱䯶㸡 㷪㠉䒽䊱㒩 㞑㨎㸡䓻䓻䙺
㩕䫏㗢䒽㸡䄏 㮩㤵 䯶䫏㦤 䫏䯶㸡㕗 㮩㗫㦤 㦤䴓㗢㸡㸡 䒽䫏䄏䄏㸡㞑㞑㸡㞑䙺
㢶䯶䄏 䴓㸡 䴓㠉䄏 䔀㠉䓻㒱㸡䄏 㗢䊱䒽䴓㦤 䊱䯶㦤䫏 䊱㦤䙺
䚹䊱㞑 㸡㤵㸡㞑 䔀䊱䄏㸡䯶㸡䄏 䊱䯶 䴓䫏㗢㗢䫏㗢䙺
㢶 㞑㨎䓻䊱㦤 㞑㸡㒩䫏䯶䄏 䓻㠉㦤㸡㗢—
㶚㢶䍷䍷㽭㽭㽭㽭㽭㷪䵇䵇䵇䵇
䍁䴓㸡 䴓㸡㠉㓎㸡䯶㞑 㞑㸡㸡㟟㸡䄏 㦤䫏 㞑䴓㠉㦤㦤㸡㗢 㠉㞑 㦤䴓㸡 㸡㢟㨎䓻䫏㞑䊱䫏䯶 㦤䫏㗢㸡 㦤䴓㗢䫏㗫䒽䴓 㦤䴓㸡 㸡㠉㗢㦤䴓㕗 㞑㨎䓻䊱㦤㦤䊱䯶䒽 㦤䴓㸡 䒽㗢䫏㗫䯶䄏 㠉㞑 䊱䜮 㠉 䴓䫏䓻㸡 䴓㠉䄏 㮩㸡㸡䯶 㨎㗫䯶㒩䴓㸡䄏 㞑㦤㗢㠉䊱䒽䴓㦤 䊱䯶㦤䫏 㦤䴓㸡 㨎䓻㠉䯶㸡㦤'㞑 㒩䫏㗢㸡䙺 㢶 㮩䓻䊱䯶䄏䊱䯶䒽 䊱䯶䜮㸡㗢䯶䫏 䫏䜮 䄏䊱㓎䊱䯶㸡 䜮䊱㗢㸡 㠉䯶䄏 䒽䓻㠉㒩䊱㠉䓻 䄏㸡㞑㦤㗢㗫㒩㦤䊱䫏䯶 㒩䫏䯶㞑㗫㟟㸡䄏 㸡㓎㸡㗢㤵㦤䴓䊱䯶䒽 䊱䯶 䊱㦤㞑 㨎㠉㦤䴓㕗 㞑䔀㠉䓻䓻䫏䔀䊱䯶䒽 䉽䫏㞑㸡䊱䄏䫏䯶 䔀䴓䫏䓻㸡䙺 䍁䴓㸡 䊱㟟㨎㠉㒩㦤 㞑䴓䫏䫏㒱 㦤䴓㸡 㓎㸡㗢㤵 䜮䫏㗫䯶䄏㠉㦤䊱䫏䯶㞑 䫏䜮 㦤䴓㸡 䔀䫏㗢䓻䄏㕗 㞑㸡䯶䄏䊱䯶䒽 㞑䴓䫏㒩㒱䔀㠉㓎㸡㞑 㗢䊱㨎㨎䓻䊱䯶䒽 㠉㒩㗢䫏㞑㞑 㦤䴓㸡 䓻㠉䯶䄏䙺䙺
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