Lady Sybil's Choice: A Tale of the Crusades

  *CHAPTER X.*

  _*PREPARING FOR THE STRUGGLE*_*.*

  "He that hath a thousand friends hath not a friend to spare, And he that hath one enemy shall find him every where."

  I have thought, and thought, about Lady Judith's question concerningperfection, and, as I expected, I cannot see my way through it at all.And what is more, I do not see how to reconcile it with what she saidherself of Sister Eudoxia. So this morning I took the liberty of askingher what she meant.

  Lady Judith smiled, and replied, "Wert thou puzzled, Helena?"

  "Yes, holy Mother," said I, "very much."

  "I am glad of it," she answered. "I wanted to puzzle thee, and makethee think."

  "I have been thinking a great deal," I said, "but I cannot think my wayout of the labyrinth."

  "We must take counsel of Holy Writ to find our way out," answered LadyJudith; and she laid her hand on her Greek Bible, which is a veryhandsome book, bound in carved wood, and locked with a golden clasp.She unlocked it with the little key which hangs from her girdle, andsaid, "Now listen, Helena. In the days when our Lord dwelt on middleearth, there were certain men amongst the Jews, called Pharisees, whowere deemed exceedingly holy persons. So exact were they in thefulfilment of all duties, that they did not reckon their tithes paid,unless they taxed the very pot-herbs in their gardens. Yet our Lordsaid to His disciples,--'If your righteousness surpass not that of thePharisees, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of Heaven.'"

  "Likely enough," said I. "Surely any christened man could easily bebetter than heathen Jews."

  "But He said more, Helena. 'Be ye then perfect, even as your Father, Hein the heavens, is perfect.'"

  "Perfect as the good God is perfect!" I exclaimed.

  "That is our standard," she responded. "We are not to rest short ofthat."

  "But we cannot! You yourself said it, holy Mother, when we were talkingof Sister Eudoxia."

  "I did, my child. Let us take two more passages from Holy Writ, and seeif they cast any light upon it. 'The end of the law is Christ, untorighteousness, to every believer.' 'And ye are in Him complete.'"

  "I do not understand them, holy Mother."

  "I have heard thee speak, Helena, of thy favourite legend of the twogood knights of Greece. What was it that Sir Pythias agreed to do forSir Damon?"

  "To suffer death in his stead, if he did not return home at theappointed time."

  "Suppose that Sir Pythias had suffered death before Sir Damon's return,and that when Sir Damon came back, the Lord King had put him to deathalso: what wouldst thou call that?"

  "Oh, that would never have been just!" said I.

  "But why? Sir Damon had been sentenced to die."

  "Yes, but when another had died for him--Oh, it would be cruellyunfair!"

  "In other words, Sir Damon would be reckoned to have died, so far as thelaw was concerned, in the person of his friend?"

  "Exactly," said I.

  "And this friend, remember, had voluntarily given his life. Now, thisis the point to which I want to bring thee. The death of Sir Pythiaswould have been reckoned to Sir Damon; and this last would have beenaccounted to have paid the full penalty to which he was sentenced, andto be thenceforward a free and blameless man."

  "Of course," said I. "There could have been no other result."

  "Now, Helena dear, this is what Christ has done for all believers. Hisdeath is reckoned to them, and they are thenceforward free andblameless--perfect as He is perfect, 'complete in Him.' Not inthemselves, mind: never! In themselves they are sinners to the lasthour of life. But in Him, on account of His atoning death and holyobedience, God's holy law reckons them perfect as Himself. So that, inone sense, they are perfect for ever: in another sense, they are utterlyimperfect so long as they live. 'For by one offering He hath perfectedin perpetuity the hallowed ones.'"

  "But, holy Mother," I asked, "what do you mean by 'in Him'?"

  "My child," she answered, "I doubt if any but God knows all that ismeant by that deep word. And what man knows cannot be told toanother,--it can only be felt. But it means light, and life, and joy,Helena: the very light that God is, the life of all the ages, the joywith which no stranger intermeddleth. Only taste it, and see. Nodraught of sin can be truly sweet to thee again, after one drop of thatwine of Heaven."

  I am quite delighted to find that Messire Tristan de Montluc, who hasexasperated me for nearly two years past by playing the broken-heartedlover, has got his heart mended again. I was beginning to entertain adesperate wish that he would take the cowl, for it made me feel aperfect wretch whenever I looked at him: and yet what could I have saidto Guy but what I did? I feel indescribably relieved to hear that he isgoing after his brother to Byzantium, and intensely delighted to findthat he is privately engaged to Melisende de Courtenay. I believe shewill make him a good wife (which I never could have done): and it issuch a comfort to know that he has given over caring about me.

  It does seem not unlikely that we may have war. There are flying rumoursof Saladin's drawing nearer. May the good God avert it! I believeAmaury would tell me that I was a simpleton, if he heard me say so.

  The holy Patriarch Heraclius, and the Lord Roger, Master of the Temple,have set forth on a pilgrimage to the shrines of the West. They intendto visit Compostella and Canterbury, amongst others.

  Count Raymond has been behaving rather better lately--that is, we havenot seen quite so much of him.

  A letter from Alix came to hand last week; but there is nothing ofinterest in it, except that every one is well. She says her childbegins to walk, and can already prattle fluently: which called forth agrowl from Amaury, who wants to know why every body's children thrivebut his. It is not true, for little Heloise is really an engagingchild, and has excellent health.

  "Ah!--but then," says Guy, aside to me, with arched eyebrows, "she isonly a girl, poor little good-for-nothing!"

  I know Guy does not think so, for he is devoted to his little Agnes; andHeloise is certainly the prettier child. But neither of them is equalto the little King, who is a most beautiful boy, and has the quaintestsayings ever heard from a child.

  There, now! Did any body ever see any thing like these men?

  Messire Tristan set forth yesterday morning; and what should he say toGuy (who told me, with his eyes full of fun) but--

  "Damoiselle Elaine will find out that it does not do to trifle with aman's heart. She will doubtless be angry at my defection; but I haveborne long enough with her caprice, and have now transferred myaffections to one who can be truer!"

  Was ever mortal creature so misrepresented? Why, the man must havethought I did not mean what I said! My caprice, indeed! Trifle with aman's heart! And as if affection could be transferred at will from oneperson to another!

  Guy seemed excessively amused with my exclamations.

  "What a conceited set of people you men must be!" said I.

  "Well, we are rather a bad set," answered Guy, laughing. "O littleElaine, thou art so funny!"

  "Pray, what is there funny about me?" said I. "And please to tell me,Guy, why men always seem to fancy that women do not know their ownminds?"

  "Well, they don't," said Guy.

  "Only the silly ones, who have no minds to know," I replied.

  "Just so," answered he. "But those, thou seest, are the generality ofwomen. Rubies are scarce; pebbles are common."

  "Only among women?" said I.

  "Possibly not," responded Guy, looking very much amused. "Poor DeMontluc appears to be a ruby in his own eyes, and I presume he is only apebble in thine. Let us hope that Damoiselle Melisende will considerhim a gem of priceless value."

  Well, I am sure I have no objection to that.

  But another idea occurs to me, which is by no means so pleasant. Sinceother people are always misunderstanding me, can it be possible that Iam constantly misunderstanding other people? I do think I havemisunderstood Eschine, and I a
m sorry for it. I like her a great dealbetter now than I ever expected to do, and I almost admire that quietendurance of hers--partly because I feel Amaury so trying, and partly, Isuspect, because I have so little of the quality myself. But is it--canit be--possible that I am misunderstanding Count Raymond?

  I do not think so. Why should I think of a beautiful serpent whenever Ilook at him? Why should I feel a sensation, of which I cannot get rid,as if that dark handsome face of his covered something repugnant andperilous? It is not reason that tells me this: it is something morelike instinct. Is it a true warning to beware of the man, or only afoolish, baseless fancy, of which I ought to be ashamed?

  And--I cannot tell why--it has lately assumed a more definite anddreadful form. A terror besets me that he has some design on LadySybil. He knows that she is the rightful heir of the crown: and that--Ido believe, through his machinations--she has been set aside for her ownson. If his wife were to die--the holy saints defend it!--I believe himcapable of poisoning Guy, in order to marry Sybil, and to make himselfKing of Jerusalem.

  Am I very wicked, that such ideas come into my head? Yet I do not knowhow to keep them out. I do not invite them, yet they come. And in theCount's manner to Lady Sybil there is a sort of admiring, flatteringdeference, which I do not like to see,--something quite different fromhis manner towards her sister. I do not think she is conscious of it,and I fancy Guy sees nothing.

  Oh dear, dear! There is something very wrong in this world altogether.And I cannot see how it is to be set right.

  I asked Lady Judith this evening if she believed in presentiments.

  She answered, "Yes, when they come from God."

  "Ah!--but how is one to know?"

  "Ask Him to remove the feeling, if it be not true."

  I will try the plan. But if it should not answer?

  The heats of summer are so great, and the Holy City is considered sovery unhealthy, that the Regent proposes to remove the Lord King to thecity of Acre, until the hot weather is over. Guy and Lady Sybil aregoing to stay at Ascalon, a city which is Guy's own, and close to thecoast, though not actually a sea-port like Acre. I cannot help beingglad to hear that there will be something like a week's journey betweenGuy and Count Raymond. I may be unjust, but--I do not know. I haveoffered seven Paters every evening, that the good God might take thethought out of my heart if it be wicked: but it seems to me that it onlygrows stronger. I told Lady Judith that her plan did not answer; thatis, that the presentiment did not go.

  "What is this thought which troubles thee, little one?" said she.

  "Holy Mother," said I, "do you ever utterly mistrust and feel afraid ofsome particular person, without precisely having a reason for doing so?"

  Lady Judith laid down her work, and looked earnestly at me.

  "I generally have a reason, Helena. But I can quite imagine--Who is it,my child? Do not fear my repeating what thou mayest tell me."

  "It is the Lord Regent," said I. "I feel afraid of him, as I might of atamed tiger, lest the subdued nature should break out. I do not believein his professions of friendship for Guy. And I do not at all like hismanner to Lady Sybil."

  Lady Judith's eyes were fixed on me.

  "I did not know, Helena, how sharp thine eyes were. Thou wert a childwhen thou camest here; but I see thou art one no longer. So thou hastseen that? I thought I was the only one."

  It struck me with a sensation as of sickening fear, to find that mysuspicions were shared, and by Lady Judith.

  "What is to be done?" I said in a whisper. "Shall I speak to Guy?--orLady Sybil?"

  Lady Judith's uplifted hand said unmistakably, "No!"

  "Watch," she said. "Watch and pray, and wait. Oh, no speaking!--atleast, not yet."

  "But till when?" I asked.

  "I should say, till you all return here--unless something happen in theinterim. But if thou dost speak, little one--do not be surprised ifnobody believe thee. Very impulsive men, like thy brother, rarelyindulge suspicion or mistrust: and Sybil is most unsuspicious. They arelikely enough to think thee fanciful and unjust."

  "It would be too bad!" said I.

  "It would be very probable," she responded.

  "Holy Mother," said I, "what do you think he aims at doing?"

  I wanted to know, yet scarcely dared to ask, if the same dread hadoccurred to her as to me.

  "I think," she said unhesitatingly, "he aims at making himself King, bymarriage, either with Sybil or with Isabel."

  "But he would have to murder his own wife and the lady's husband!" criedI.

  "No need, in the first case. The Lady Countess suffers under someinternal and incurable disorder, which must be fatal sooner or later; itis only a question of time. Her physicians think she may live about twoyears, but not longer. And so long as she lives, thy brother's life issafe."

  "But if she were to die--?"

  "Then it might be well to warn him. But we know not, Helena, what mayhappen ere then. The Lord reigneth, my child. It is best to put whatwe love into His hands, and leave it there."

  "But how do I know what He would do with it?" said I, fearfully.

  "He knows. And that is enough for one who knows Him."

  "It is not enough for me," said I sadly.

  "Because thou dost not know Him. Helena, art thou as much afraid of thegood God as of the Lord Regent?"

  "Not in the same way, of course, holy Mother," I replied; "because Ithink the Lord Regent a wicked man."

  "No, but to the same extent?"

  "I don't know. I think so," said I, in a low voice.

  "Of Christ that died, and that intercedeth for us? Afraid of Him,Helena?"

  "O holy Mother, I don't know!" I said, bursting into tears. "I amafraid it is so. And I cannot help it. I cannot tell how to alter it.I want to be more like you and old Marguerite; but I don't know how tobegin."

  "Wilt thou not ask the Lord to show thee how to begin?"

  "I have done: but He has not done it."

  Lady Judith laid her hand on my bowed head, as if to bless me.

  "Dear Helena," she said, "do not get the idea into thine head that thouwilt have to persuade God to save thee. He wishes it a great deal morethan thou. But He sometimes keeps his penitents waiting in the darkbasilica outside, to teach them some lesson which they could not learnif they were admitted at once into the lighted church. Trust Him to letthee in as soon as the right time comes. Only be sure not to get wearyof knocking, and go away."

  "But what does He want to teach me, holy Mother?"

  "I do not know, my child. He knows. He will see to it that thou arttaught the right lesson, if only thou wilt have the patience to wait andlearn."

  "Does God teach every body patience?" said I, sighing.

  "Indeed He does: and perhaps there is scarcely a lesson which we aremore slow to learn."

  "I shall be slow enough to learn that lesson, I am sure!" said I.

  Lady Judith smiled.

  "Inattentive children are generally those that complain most of thehardness of their tasks," said she.

  We were both silent for a while, when Lady Judith said quietly--

  "Helena, what is Christ our Lord to thee?"

  "I am not sure that I understand you, holy Mother," said I. "Christ ourLord is God."

  "Good; but what is He _to thee_?"

  I felt puzzled. I did not know that He was any thing more to me than toevery body else.

  "Dost thou not understand? Then tell me, what is Monseigneur the Countof Ascalon to thee?"

  "Guy?" asked I in a little surprise. "He is my own dear brother--thedearest being to me in all the world."

  "Then that is something different from what he is to others?"

  "Of course!" I said rather indignantly. "Guy could never be tostrangers what he is to me! Why, holy Mother, with all deference, youyourself know that. He is not that to you."

  "Thou hast spoken the very truth," said she. "But, Helena, that which heis to thee, and not to
me,--that dearest in all the world, ay, in allthe universe,--my child, Christ is that to me."

  I looked at her, and I saw the soft, radiant light in the grey eyes: andI could not understand it. Again that strange, mortified feeling tookpossession of me. Lady Judith knew something I did not; she hadsomething I had not; and it was something which made her happier thanany thing had yet made me. There was a gulf between us; and I was onthe rocky, barren side of it, and she on the one waving with corn andverdant with pasture.

  It was not at all a pleasant feeling. And I could see no bridge acrossthe gulf.

  "You are a religious person, holy Mother," said I. "I suppose that makesthe difference."

  Yet I did not believe that, though I said so. Old Marguerite was nonun; and she was on the flowery side of that great gulf, as well as LadyJudith. And if Lady Sybil were there also, she was no nun. That was notthe difference.

  "No, maiden," was Lady Judith's quiet answer. "Nor dost thou think so."

  I hung my head, and felt more mortified than ever.

  "Dost thou want to know it, Helena?"

  "Holy Mother, so much!" I said, bursting into tears. "You andMarguerite seem to me in a safe walled garden, guarded with men andtowers; and I am outside in the open champaign, where the wolves are andthe robbers, and I do not know how to get in to you. I have been roundand round the walls, and I can see no gate."

  "Dear child;" said Lady Judith, "Jesus Christ is the gate of the Gardenof God. And He is not a God afar off, but close by. Hast thou askedHim, and doth it seem as though He would not hear? Before thou say somuch, make very sure that nothing is stopping the way on thy side.There is nothing but love, and wisdom, and faithfulness, on His."

  "What can stop the way?" I said.

  "Some form of self-love," she replied. "It has as many heads as thehydra. Pride, indolence, covetousness, passion--but above all,unbelief: some sort of indulged sin. Thou must empty thine heart,Helena, if Christ is to come in: or else He will have to empty it forthee. And I advise thee not to wait for that, for the process is verypainful. Yet I sometimes fear it will have to be the case with thee."

  "Well!" said I, "there is nobody in there but Guy and Lady Sybil, and afew more a good deal nearer the gate. Does our Lord want me to empty myheart of them?"

  I thought that, of course, being religious, she would say yes; and thenI should respond that I could not do it. But she said--

  "Dear, the one whom our Lord wants deposed from the throne of thy heartis Helene de Lusignan."

  "What, myself?"

  "Thyself," said Lady Judith, in the same quiet way.

  I made an excuse to fetch some gold thread, for I did not like that onebit. And when I came back, things were even better than I hoped, forLady Isabel was in the room; and though Lady Judith will talk ofreligious matters freely enough when Lady Sybil is present, yet shenever does so before her sister.

  Lady Judith is entirely mistaken. I am quite sure of that. I don'tlove me better than any one else! I should think myself perfectlydespicable. Amaury does, I believe; but I don't. No, indeed! She isquite mistaken. I scarcely think I shall be quite so glad as I expectedthat Lady Judith is going to stay in the Holy City. I do like her, butI don't like her to say things of that kind.

  "Marguerite," I said, an hour or two later, "dost thou think I lovemyself?"

  "My Damoiselle does not think herself a fool," quietly answered the oldwoman.

  "No, of course not," said I; "I know I have brains. How can I help it?But dost thou think I love myself,--better than I love other people?"

  "We all love either ourselves or the good God."

  "But we can love both."

  Marguerite shook her head. "Ha!--no. That would be serving twomasters. And the good God Himself says no one can do that."

  I did not like this much better. So, after I finished my beads, Ikissed the crucifix, and I said,--"Sir God, show me whether I lovemyself." Because,--though I do not like it,--yet, perhaps, if I do, itis best to know it.

  We reached Ascalon a week ago, making three short days' journey of it,so as not to over-fatigue the little ones. Those of us who have comeare Guy and Lady Sybil, myself, Amaury and Eschine, and the littlegirls, Agnes and Heloise. I brought Marguerite and Bertrade only towait on me. Lady Isabel prefers to stay at Hebron, which is only oneday's journey from the Holy City. She and Messire Homfroy quarrelledviolently about it, for he wished to go to Acre, and wanted her toaccompany him; but in the end, as usual, she had her own way, and hewill go to Acre, and she to Hebron.

  The night before we set forth, as I was passing Lady Judith's door, herlow voice said--

  "Helena, my child, wilt thou come in here? I want a word with thee."

  So I went into her cell, which is perfectly plain, having no hangings ofany sort, either to the walls or the bed, only a benitier[#] of redpottery, and a bare wooden cross, affixed to the wall. She invited me tosit on her bed, and then she said--

  [#] Holy water vessel.

  "Helena, unless thou seest some very strong reason, do not speak to theCount touching the Count of Tripoli until we meet again."

  "Well, I thought I should not," said I. "But, holy Mother, will youtell me why?"

  "We may be mistaken," she answered. "And, if not, I am very doubtfulwhether it would not do more harm than good. After all, dear maiden,the shortest cut is round by Heaven. Whenever I feel doubtful how farit is wise to speak, I like to lay the matter before the Lord, and askHim to speak for me, if He sees good. He will make no mistake, as Imight: and He can tell secrets without doing harm, as probably I should.It is the safest way, Helena, and the surest."

  "I should be afraid!" said I. "But of course, holy Mother, for you"----

  "Yes," she said, answering my half-expressed thought. "It is a hardmatter to ask a favour of a stranger, especially if he be a king. Butwhere he is thy father----Dost thou understand me, maiden?"

  Ay, only too well. Well enough to make me feel sick at heart, as if thegulf between grew wider than ever. Should I never find the bridgeacross?

  We lead such a quiet, peaceful life here! Some time ago, I should havecalled it dull; but I am tired of pageants, and skirmishes, andquarrels, and so it is rather a relief--for a little while. Lady Sybil,I can see, enjoys it: she likes quiet. Amaury fumes and frets. Ibelieve Eschine likes it, but won't say so, because she knows Amaurydoes not. I never saw the equal of Eschine for calm contentedness."All right"--"never mind it"--"it does not signify"--are the style ofher stock phrases when any thing goes wrong. And "Won't it be all thesame a hundred years hence?" That is a favourite reflection with her.

  "Oh dear, Eschine!" I could not help saying one day, "I do hate that petphrase of thine. A hundred years hence! That will be the year of ourLord 1285. Why, thou and I will be nowhere then."

  "Nay, I suppose we shall be somewhere," was Eschine's grave answer.

  "Oh, well, don't moralise!" said I. "But thou knowest, if we werealways to look at things in that style, nothing would ever signify anything. It makes me feel as queer as Messire Renaud's notions--as if allthe world, and I in it, had gone into a jelly, and nothing was anything."

  Eschine laughed. But Eschine's laughter is always quiet.

  "I think thou dost not quite understand me, Elaine," said she. "I donot use such phrases of things that do matter, but of those that do not.I should not say such words respecting real troubles, however small.But are there not a great many events in life, of which you can maketroubles or not, as you choose? An ill-dressed dish,--a disappointmentabout the colour of a tunic,--a misunderstanding about the pattern of atrimming,--a cut in one's finger,--and such as these,--is it not veryfoolish to make one's self miserable about them? What can be more sillythan to spend half an hour in fretting over an inconvenience which didnot last a quarter?"

  "My dear Eschine, it sounds very grand!" said I. "Why dost thou notteach Amaury to look at things in that charming way? He frets overmistakes and inconveniences far more th
an Guy and I do."

  Eschine's smile had more patience than amusement in it.

  "For the same reason, Elaine, that I do not teach yonder crane to singlike a nightingale."

  I can guess that parable. It would be mere waste of time and labour.

  Guy did not forget my birthday yesterday; he gave me a beautiful coralnecklace, which one knows is good against poison. (I will take care towear it whenever Count Raymond is present.) Lady Sybil gave me a lovelyring, set with an opal; and if I were at Acre, and had a bay-leaf towrap round it, I would go into the Count's chamber invisible, and listento him. Eschine's gift was a silver pomander, with a chain to hang itby. Amaury (just like him!) forgot all about it till this morning, andthen gave me a very pretty gold filagree case, containing the holyEvangel of Saint Luke, to hang round my neck for an amulet.

  Am I really nineteen years of age? I begin to feel so old!--and yet Iam the youngest of us.

  I do think that nothing really nice ever lasts in this world. The Baronde Montluc arrived here last night from Byzantium with all sorts of badnews. In the first place, Saladin, with his Paynim army, has re-enteredthe Holy Land, and is marching, as men fear, upon Neapolis. If he dothis, he will cut off Acre from the Holy City, and the young Lord Kingcannot reach his capital. The Baron sent a trusty messenger back toAcre, to Count Raymond, urging him to hasten to the Holy City with theKing, and lose not an hour in doing it. The coast road is still clear;or he could come by sea to Jaffa. Messire de Montluc sent his own signetas a token to Count Raymond--which ring the Count knows well. Guy hasordered us all to pack up, and return without loss of time to the HolyCity, where he will take the command till Count Raymond arrives.

  "Now, Elaine!--how wouldst thou like a siege?" triumphantly asks Amaury.

  May all the holy saints avert such a calamity!

  But there is, if possible, even worse behind: inasmuch as a foe withoutthe gates is less formidable than a traitor within them. The Patriarch(I will not call him holy this time) and the Lord Roger had returned asfar as Byzantium a few days before Messire de Montluc left that city,and it comes out now, what all their fine talk of pilgrimage meant. Theyhave been at the Court of England on purpose to offer the crown ofJerusalem to King Henry the father, seeing (say they) the distractedstate of the kingdom, the peril of Paynim war, and the fact that KingHenry is the nearest heir of King Foulques of Anjou. Well, upon myword! As if the crown of Jerusalem were theirs to offer!

  It seems to me, too--but every body, even Guy, says that is only one ofmy queer, unaccountable notions--that, since King Foulques of Anjou hadno right to the crown except as the husband of Queen Melisende, so longas her heirs remain in existence, they should be preferred to his heirsby another wife. But Amaury laughs at me for saying this. He says, ofcourse, when Count Foulques married Queen Melisende, and became King,all her right passed to him, and she was thenceforth simply his consort,his children having as much right as hers. It does not seem just andfair to me; but every one only laughs, and says I have such absurdfancies.

  "Why, what would be the good of marrying an heiress at all," saysAmaury, "if you had to give up her property when she died before you?"

  Still I do not see that it is just. And I wonder if, sometimes, thequeer ideas of one century do not become the common ideas of the next.But Amaury seems to think that notion exquisitely ridiculous.

  "Nonsense, Elaine!" says he. "It was a simple matter of familyarrangement. Don't go and fancy thyself the wisest woman in the world!Thou hast the silliest ideas I ever heard."

  "Well, I don't, Amaury," said I, "any more than I fancy thee the wisestman."

  Guy laughed, and told Amaury he had a Roland for his Oliver.