Now God did not put His entire trust in Satan, and in the evening of the day He set to prove him:  “It is over.”

“My Lord, so be it,” answered Satan.

“How now?” asked God.

“The scale of wickedness sways like a kite in the wind,” cried Satan.  “Give me my robes and I will transgress against you no more.”

“In the Book of Heaven and Hell,” said God, “there is no writing of the last of the Welsh.”

Satan spoke up:  “My Lord, your pledge concerned those judged on the Day of Judgment.  Day is outing.  The windows of the Mansion are lit; hark the angels tuning their golden strings for the cheer of the Resurrection Supper.  Give me my robes that I may sing your praises.”

“Can I not lengthen the day with a wink of my eye?”

“All things you can do, my Lord, but observe your pledge to me.  Allow these people to rest a while longer.  Their number together with the number of their sins is fewer than the hairs on Elisha’s head.”

God laughed in His heart as He replied to Satan:  “Tell the Trumpeter to take his horn and the laborers their spades and bring to me the Welsh.”

The laborers digged, and at the sound of the horn the dead breathed and heaved.  Those whose wit was sharp hurried into neighboring chapels and stole Bibles and hymn-books, with which in their pockets and under their arms they joined the host in Heaven’s Courtyard, whence they went into the Waiting Chamber that is without the Judgment Hall.

“Boy bach, a lot of Books of the Word he has,” a woman remarked to the Respected Towy-Watkins.  “Say him I have one.”

“Happy would I be to do like that,” was the reply.  “But, female, much does the Large One regard His speeches.  What is the text on the wall?  ‘Prepare your deeds for the Lord.’  The Beybile is the most religious deed.  Farewell for now,” and he pretended to go away.

Holding the sleeve of his White Shirt, the woman separated her toothless gums and fashioned her wrinkled face in grief.  “Two tens he has,” she croaked.  “And his shirt is clean.  Dirty am I; buried I was as I was found, and the shovelers beat the soil through the top of the coffin.  Do much will I for one Beybile.”

“A poor dab you are,” said Towy.

“Many deeds you have?  But no odds to me.”

“Four I have.”

“Woe for you, unfortunate.”

“Iss-iss, horrid is my plight,” the woman whined.  “Little I did for Him.”

“Don’t draw tears.  For eternity you’ll weep.  Here is a massive Beybile for your four deeds.”

“Take him one.  Handy will three be in the minute of the questioning.”

“Refusing the Beybile bach you are.  Also the hymn-book—­old and new notations—­I present for four.  Stupid am I as the pigger’s prentice who bought the litter in the belly.”

“Be him soft and sell for one.”

“I cannot say less.  No relation you are to me.  Hope I do that right enough are your four.  Recite them to me, old woman.”