covered with linen cloths, for some of them had been sore smitten and
hacked in the fray. We went up to them and John Ball took the cloth
from the face of one; he had been shot to the heart with a shaft and
his face was calm and smooth. He had been a young man fair and
comely, with hair flaxen almost to whiteness; he lay there in his
clothes as he had fallen, the hands crossed over his breast and
holding a rush cross. His bow lay on one side of him, his quiver of
shafts and his sword on the other.

John Ball spake to me while he held the corner of the sheet: "What
sayest thou, scholar? feelest thou sorrow of heart when thou lookest
on this, either for the man himself, or for thyself and the time when
thou shalt be as he is?"

I said, "Nay, I feel no sorrow for this; for the man is not here: this
is an empty house, and the master has gone from it. Forsooth, this to
me is but as a waxen image of a man; nay, not even that, for if it
were an image, it would be an image of the man as he was when he was
alive. But here is no life nor semblance of life, and I am not moved
by it; nay, I am more moved by the man's clothes and war-gear--there
is more life in them than in him."

"Thou sayest sooth," said he; "but sorrowest thou not for thine own
death when thou lookest on him?"

I said, "And how can I sorrow for that which I cannot so much as think
of? Bethink thee that while I am alive I cannot think that I shall
die, or believe in death at all, although I know well that I shall
die--I can but think of myself as living in some new way."