It was Easter Day. At midday service in the church the brothers sang the Easter hymn, and a mighty longing took hold of John Storm for his own resurrection from his living grave.
Next day there was much coming and going between the world outside and the adjoining cell, and late at night there were heavy and shambling footsteps, and even some coarse and ribald talk.
“Bear a 'and, myte.”
“Well, they won't have their backs broke as carry this one downstairs. He ain't a Danny Lambert, anyway.”
“No, they don't feed ye on Bovril in plyces syme as this. I'll lay ye odds yer own looking-glass wouldn't know ye arter three months 'ard on religion and dry tommy.”
“It pawses me 'ow people tyke to it. Gimme my pint of four-half, and my own childring to follow me.”
Early on the following morning a stroke rang out on the bell, then another stroke, and again another.
“It is the knell,” thought John.
A group of the lay brothers came up and passed into the room. “Now!” said one, as if giving a signal, and then they passed out again with the measured steps of men who bear a burden. “They are taking him away,” he thought.
He listened to their retreating footsteps. “He has gone,” he murmured.