Wagner almost at the last cast, said, we dispute not what you are Faustus, but what by reason you may be. Well, answered Faustus, seeing thou wilt not believe, nor give any credit to my sayings, and which I prove by arguments, I hope thou wilt believe thine own eyes, and if thou seest what I say unto thee, thou wilt neither be obstinate nor incredulous, and rather than Wagner (whom I do love as myself) should be carried away with so palpable an Heresy, behold Wagner and believe, and straightways he drew his knife, the Prologue of his knavery, and looking first upon Wagner, and next on the weapon which he had in his hand, as if with his eyes he would have moved him to some pity, and moved them to be witnesses of the truth, he struck himself into his thigh twice or thrice, and after his strokes followed blood so hastily, as if it would have overtaken the injurious worker of his effusion: which blood Faustus received in a silver Bowl, and staunching his wound, but not until the blood might be seen over the Cup-brims, then Faustus lifted the blood on high saying: See here the witness of the truth, Wagner take it, look how fresh it is, it is not that which comes from a Spirit, it is blood both in nature and colour, and if this be not enough to make thee believe that which I do tell thee, it boots not, there is not any truth at all. I thought it enough for an extemporal Dis[48] and controversy, I thought the scholar had heard as well and as long as the Doctor had taught, but yet he had not ended. Wagner receiving the Cup and looking on the blood, beheld him without saying anything, shewing by his silence his meaning. Faustus minding to revenge and recompense Wagner his unbelief, nay further (quoth he) feel my hand, tell me whether it hath not the natural heat and essential solidity: then immediately he stretched forth his arm. Wagner with sudden ecstasy of joy carried away, ran to embrace his old Master, as his new friend, whom when Faustus had encircled he fell to beating the poor Scholar most miserably, that Wagner’s pitiful roaring seemed to be an Echo to the Doctor’s blows, now (quoth Faustus) hereafter be learned either to be more wary or less mistrustful, and therewith laughing effusedly vanished away, leaving Wagner to be a witness (yet almost half dead with his buffeting) of their conference, and that he was a good substantial Burgess of Hell: Wagner, poor Boy, for the space of seven hours not able scarce of himself to stir or to take breath, and without much stirring either of hand or foot, whereby any able life might be conjectured: At length lifting up his head and sighing a little (for a little was as much as he could do at that time), he reared himself up, and laying his head upon his hand and his hand upon the ground, he after sighs sent out most sorrowful groans, and after groans some feeble words, as he after reported it to his companions and familiar acquaintance: to accuse either his Master’s rigour or his own folly,