It is raining now, in quiet little drops, and Marwood, the hangman of England, is dead. Is it nothing new for you to have raindrops on your fingers in the solitary dark crying of the night? Marwood, the hangman of England, is dead. There is no reach to this moon-touched universe beyond the hero’s star; eagles drift through crimson foreign ports; and Marwood, the hangman of England, is dead. Marwood’s black box is sunk in a grave, his skeleton of ebony and ash is ancient earth. Marwood, hear the gulls cry out Marwood, the hangman of England is dead.