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I said there was no cruelty on Dragon’s Moor that day. But at sundown the Mayor turned to his mother and said–

“We’ve been over-hasty, mother. We ought to ha’ found out who made the Devil what he is.” At last the sun dropped; a shadow fell on the brown moors and crept up the mound where the mother and son sat. The brightness died out of the Mayor’s face.

Three minutes after, he flung up his hands and cried, “Mother–my head, my head!”

She rose, still without a word, pulled down his arms, slipped one within her own, and led him away to the road. The crowd did not interfere; they were burying the broken dragon, with shouts and rough play.

A woman followed them to the road, and tried to clasp the Mayor’s knees as he staggered. His mother beat her away. “Off wi’ you!” she cried; “’tis your reproach he’s bearin’.”

She helped him slowly home. In the shadow of the cottage the inspired look that he had worn all day returned for a moment. Then a convulsion took him, casting him on the floor.

At nine o’clock he died, with his head on her lap.

She closed his eyes, smoothed the wrinkles on his tired face, and sat watching him for some time. At length she lifted and laid him on the deal table at full length, bolted the door, put the heavy shutter on the low window, and began to light the fire.

For fuel she had a heap of peat-turves and some sticks. Having lit it, she set a crock of water to warm, and undressed the man slowly. Then, the water being ready, she washed and laid him out, chafing his limbs and talking to herself all the while.

“Fair, straight legs,” she said; “beautiful body that leapt in my side, forty years back, and thrilled me! How proud I was! Why did God make you beautiful?”

All night she sat caressing him. And the smoke of the peat-turves, finding no exit and no draught to carry them up the chimney, crept around and killed her quietly beside her son.