A particularly gruesome death, this one, the first at the monastery. The blood pulses from the severed artery for some minutes after the deed; it runs along the cold stone corridor; reaches the worn grooved steps in such volume that the first trickle grows and swells until it has become a miniature, ensanguined cascade, turning it into a cruel and bloody parody of the Reichenbach Falls. And all the while, Brother Saturday lies with eyes open, body limp, becoming colder, the sensation still there although the first stroke of the knife has killed him.