Brother Gorlois said nothing, not even when the cramp in his arms grew great.
The old man fell into a stupor; but sometimes he wandered a little. He would moan and say:
“My son—Gorlois—my son—where are thou?”
Sometimes he would say:
“I thirst—alone—Thou, Lord, wast left——”
And Brother Gorlois, albeit dull of wit, saw he was living through the pain and loneliness of the past night. Brother Gorlois did not ask the old monk’s pardon; he did not know he wanted him to forgive; he knew his heart felt heavy; he began to wish the Head might find out what he had done, and have him flogged; and he felt more and more wroth with the swineherd’s daughter, who was the cause of his discomfort.
In the chapel the brethren began to sing, Brother Pacificus could not hear them. The hour of midnight was near.
Dies iræ, dies illa,
Solvet sæclum in favilla,
Teste David cum Sybilla.