The manner in which he told the whole story was any thing but pleasant to me. He began to get sleepy, and told me he would hold the pine-light while I got into bed up on the _loft_, as he called it. The only way to get up was by a ladder made of a pole split in two, with rounds put into it. I climbed up, and he followed me with the torch. As soon as I got to the bed over the loose boards that covered the floor, and found an old split-bottom chair, which I expected to use in self-defence before morning, I told him to withdraw.
I lay down without undressing, after committing my soul, family, and all my interests to God, without much hope of seeing the light of another day. No one occupied the house but myself as a bedroom. I kept watch till morning, and when any unpleasant sound was heard, I made noise enough to let any one approaching know that I was awake.
As soon as it was light I was up to see to my poor horse, which was standing in mud and water six inches deep, without food. After getting him some more green wheat in the sheaf, and a little corn bread for myself, and talking and praying with the family, I left them. I cannot say whether there was any intention to rob me or take my life. I hope there was not.
When I was about two miles on my way, and was rising a mountain where the road was scarcely six inches wider than my buggy, a man met me, riding a poor old horse without a saddle, all in rags and dirt, with nothing on him but remnants of a torn shirt and pants, with a rope tied round his waist, and a bottle of whiskey in his bosom. Such a looking piece of humanity I had never seen before. In a moment I concluded this is certainly old Randal Lucas. I saw he could not pass me on that narrow road, and I determined to have a full talk with him. When we met he tried to keep the upper side of the road, and get between my horse and the steep bank.
“Good morning, sir,” said I. “Good morning,” said he, in a very unnatural tone of voice. “Don’t you want some good books to read this morning?” “No, I don’t want any; I can’t read.” “Do you go to church?” “No, I don’t care about church.” “Well, sir,” said I, “you are an old man and must soon go to the other world.” “Yes, I am ninety years old.” “Is it possible,” said I, “you are so old?” “Yes, I can prove it.” “You would find but few witnesses to prove that by.” “Well, I can swear it then.” “Well, sir,” said I, “what do you think will become of you when you die?” “O well, I _doesn’t_ care any thing about that.” “Can you tell me who is the Saviour of sinners?” “I don’t know any thing of _them_ things.” “Well, sir, who made you?” “Why, I suppose it was God Almighty.” “What is your name, sir?” “Randal Lucas.” “Well,” said I, “I thought so,” straightening myself with a determined look. “Well, sir, you say you don’t go to church, and I must tell you in the name of my Master, that if you don’t repent you will soon be in hell. I have read and heard of you, sir, for years, and you stand on the brink of eternal burnings, and your soul stained with every crime that a man could commit.” He began to look frightened, and tried to pass me; but I kept my position, and for some minutes laid down the terrors of the law in the strongest language I could use, and then gave him some little books and tracts. He trembled like an aspen leaf.