"On the great Moor of the lost
Wander all the proud and dead—
Those who brothers' blood have shed,
Those who brothers' love have crossed."
He broke into his own verse, pouring it out deliriously:
"There's the shuddering ghost of me
Lips all black with fire and brine,
Chained between the libertine
And the fasting Pharisee."
Then he became obsessed by the idea that he was out on the Moor, wandering on it, and bound to it. The earth was red-hot under his feet, and he picked them up off the bed like a cat on hot bricks, till Pete began to laugh inanely. He saw round him all the places he had known as a child, and called out for them, because he longed to escape to them from the burning Moor—"Castweasel! Castweasel!... Ramstile!... Ellenwhorne...."