Whereupon they snarled at him like she-wolves, he not answering them but standing like one sore perplexed and distressed. Then one began the dirge again, and the others held the burden. Peter turned and gazed steadily at them. ‘Go,’ he said, and pointed to the door. They ceased wailing and looked at him dumbly. One began to utter words of abuse, but he pointed to the door again. So they gathered their rags about them and went out, muttering foully and casting spiteful glances upon him. He shut the door behind them. Then he went and stood by the head of the dead woman and regarded her face steadfastly. It was as white as the linen which shrouded it, and the features as clear-cut and firm as they had been cunningly worked in marble; the majesty of an unutterable peace was on her countenance. Peter thought of the stone image of a holy nun he had once seen on a tomb in a great church at Bruges. ‘She was a very holy woman, although she was my mother and I am her son,’ he thought simply. ‘I am as foul as she was holy.’ He watched the dead hour after hour all through the night, and the whole of his life passed before his eyes as the life of every man will pass before the eyes of the Incorruptible Judge at Doomsday. Anon bitter tears fell like rain down his cheeks, anon his eyes were hot and dry as glowing coals; he tried to pray, but he had forgotten most of what his mother had taught him, and he had no wit to pray in his own language. Anon he passionately hated himself as Righteousness hateth Sin, anon he pitied himself with a pity nigh as great as Our Lord’s for the souls that are damned. The dead woman lying there shamed him all the while, but she could not rebuke him. It neared the end of the last watch of the night, and the rush-lights guttered out one by one. Peter was moved with a mighty anguish and shaken like a reed from head to foot. He flung his arms round the dead woman and cried out with a loud and terrible voice, ‘Mother, forgive me, I did not know.’ The eyes of the dead woman slowly unclosed, her mouth opened and she spoke: ‘Son, keep me no longer here, nor cheat me of that everlasting rest that I have already found.’ Her eyes closed for ever, and Peter knew that of the dead there is no forgiveness. The Fall of Castle Beaumont Ralph of the Skeely-Eye was right wroth that night. He had drunk much of the alewife’s strongest brew, he had lost eightpence at quoits to Watkin Ploughman, and Clarice of Cock’s Lane had openly flouted him before the menfolk. Now he played at draughts with Thomas the Cordwainer, and Thomas had penned his pieces in a corner so that he could move no way without being taken. The flush on his red face deepened, he tugged at his black beard, and then with one heavy blow of his great fist sent board and draughtsmen with a crash to the floor. ‘To Hell with the game!’ he cried, rising to his feet.