“On my life,” said he, “here are some damsels not much afraid of the night-dews! What are you about here at this time, my little doves?”
“We wash, we dry, we sew!” replied the two women both at once.
“But what?” asked the young man.
“The winding-sheet of one that yet walks and speaks.”
“A corpse! Pardieu! Tell me his name.”
“Wilherm Postik.”
Louder than before laughed Wilherm, and went down the little rugged path.
But as he went on he heard more and more distinctly the beetle of the spectre laundresses striking on the douez[6] stones, and ere long they themselves were to be seen, beating at their death-shrouds, and chanting the sorrowful refrain:
“If no good soul our hands will stay,
We must toil till judgment-day;