We had rested from all labour the day before, and now were fresh as the lark.

We bathed in cold spring water, and dressed ourselves in clean garments, with a sense of preparation, as for a solemn festivity.

When we had broken our fast, I took an old lyre, which I had found in the tower and had myself repaired, and sung for the last time the two ballads of which I have said so much already.

I followed them with this, for a closing song: Oh, well for him who breaks his dream With the blow that ends the strife And, waking, knows the peace that flows Around the pain of life! We are dead, my brothers! Our bodies clasp, As an armour, our souls about; This hand is the battle-axe I grasp, And this my hammer stout.
Fear not, my brothers, for we are dead; No noise can break our rest; The calm of the grave is about the head, And the heart heaves not the breast.
And our life we throw to our people back, To live with, a further store; We leave it them, that there be no lack In the land where we live no more.
Oh, well for him who breaks his dream With the blow that ends the strife And, waking, knows the peace that flows Around the noise of life! As the last few tones of the instrument were following, like a dirge, the death of the song, we all sprang to our feet.

For, through one of the little windows of the tower, towards which I had looked as I sang, I saw, suddenly rising over the edge of the slope on which our tower stood, three enormous heads.