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He
reached
the
bed
and
waited
for
a
moment
,
leaning
on
the
scythe
,
until
he
could
get
his
breath
back
.
The
abbot
,
who
was
small
and
totally
bald
and
had
more
wrinkles
than
a
sackful
of
prunes
,
opened
his
eyes
.
’
You
’
re
late
,
’
he
whispered
,
and
died
.
Mort
swallowed
,
fought
for
breath
,
and
brought
the
scythe
around
in
a
slow
arc
.
Nevertheless
,
it
was
accurate
enough
;
the
abbot
sat
up
,
leaving
his
corpse
behind
.
’
Not
a
moment
too
soon
,
’
he
said
,
in
a
voice
only
Mort
could
hear
.
’
You
had
me
worried
for
a
moment
there
.
’
’
Okay
?
’
said
Mort
.
’
Only
I
’
ve
got
to
rush
—
’
The
abbot
swung
himself
off
the
bed
and
walked
towards
Mort
through
the
ranks
of
his
bereaved
followers
.
’
Don
’
t
rush
off
,
’
he
said
.
’
I
always
look
forward
to
these
talks
.
What
’
s
happened
to
the
usual
fellow
?
’
’
Usual
fellow
?
’
said
Mort
,
bewildered
.
Tall
chap
.
Black
cloak
.
Doesn
’
t
get
enough
to
eat
,
by
the
look
of
him
,
’
said
the
abbot
.
