On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. On the north stood the battlements of one of the towers of the gate. Mercifully, John had been sick for two of the three days of Thanksgiving week, giving her reprieve from both his presence and the machinations of Katy Pfister, who was always less active on days when he was not around. While he was straining every sinew, his foot slipped, and he fell, head foremost, into a deep trench, which he had not observed in the dark.
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