Meanwhile the red fire had faded from the western sky, and the shadows deepened and stretched outwards from under the hills. The mist came up and hid the land like a layer of cotton wool and soaked him to the skin. He plodded on. At the last village folk had told him, ‘A good eight mile and he were best to stay there that night, for it was a rough road and one easy to miss.’ But he had replied that he was in haste and he knew the road. In the darkness he could distinguish little, but over the hill yonder should lie the church with the graveyard, in which rested his father’s and his father’s father’s bones. In the hollow below the hill and on this side of it should lie his mother’s house; at the top of the rise he should see it if there were only light enough. He hastened and climbed the rise. Down in the valley, a tiny yellow light glimmered feebly through the blackness. There was his home, and the candles burnt for his return. He hastened on again, breaking into a shambling run. As he drew near he fell into a walking pace, for he felt a sudden shamefacedness. Besides, he did not want to alarm his mother; honest wayfarers were few at that time of night, he thought. He reached the door and put his hand upon the latch. Suddenly he stayed. An unearthly wailing came from within, the feeble and cracked voices of old women raised in a mournful melody. Peter’s breath came thick and fast, he almost choked, and his heart thumped like a hammer against his ribs. With an effort he lifted the latch and flung open the door. Upon a table in the middle of the room lay the dead body of his mother, laid out for burial and swathed completely except for the face in white grave-clothes. Upon her bosom was set a small platter of salt, and at each corner of the table a rushlight burnt feebly. Four old women sat round the corpse and wailed the lyke-wake dirge. ‘This ae night, this ae night, Every night and all, Fire and sleet and candle light, And Christ receive thy soul.’ Their ancient withered bodies swayed in time with the mournful air they sang, and cast fantastic shadows on the bare and plastered walls. Peter comprehended the scene in an instant. At his entrance the hags abruptly ceased their wailing and, gazing upon him, sent up exclamations of recognition and surprise. ‘Eh, this is thy home-coming,’ quoth one. ‘Behold thy mother, thou evil son,’ cried another. ‘Art not ashamed?’ screamed the third, pointing to the corpse. ‘Thou serpent,’ cried the fourth. Peter did not answer them. He stood uncertainly upon his feet as though he had been drunk, and trembled like a leaf. Then he went shakily across the floor and gazed upon the face of the dead. One of the old women stole up behind him. ‘She hath gone to accuse thee before the Lord God,’ she screamed into his ear. Peter turned and looked mournfully upon her with a face like death. ‘That she would never do,’ quoth he sadly.