—And slowly memory returned—
Who had said it—was it long ago—No. Only after the wine cellar—
He sat up—on the floor—where drunkenness had overcome him.
The horrible memory of his crime swept over him.
His mother—
He seized the body and gazed at the staring eyes. Then this was the remorse the older monks had told him—had been his father's—
And he—her son—had plunged his sabre into her heart
His own was bursting.
And this girl. He had not killed her—she had died—