e him...

Fifteen years had changed him but little: little more tremor and
slowness in the walk, a bow to the great shoulders, an eye that flashed
like a knife.

"And what do you think of New York, Malachi?"

"I was here before, your honor will remember. I fought at the
Wilderness."

I forbore asking him what change he had found. I saw his quivering
nostrils.

In a few days he would proceed south, when he had orientated himself
after the days of shipboard.

That night it seemed every one chose to come in and cluster around the
fire. Randall, the poet; and the two blond Danish girls, with their
hair like flax; Fraser, the golfer, just over from Prestwick; and a
young writer, with his spurs yet to win; and this one...and that one.

They all kept silence as old Malach spoke, sportsmen, artists, men and
women of the world; a hush came on them and their eyes showed they were
not before the crackling fire in the long rooms but amazed in the
Antrim glens.

Yes, old Malachi said, things were changed over there, and a greater
change was liable... People whispered that in the Valley of the Black
Pig the Boar without Bristles had been seen at the close of the day,
and in Templemore there was a bleeding image, and these were ominous
portents... Some folks believed and some didn't... And the great Irish
hunter that had won the Grand National, the greatest horse in the
world... But our Man of War, Malachi?.. Oh, sure, all he could do was
run, and a hare or a greyhound could beat him at that; but Shawn
Spadah, a great jumper him, as well as a runner; in fine, a horse...
And did I know that Red Simon McEwer of Cushundall had gone around
Portrush in eighteen consecutive fours?... A Rathlin Islander had tried
the swim across to Scotland, but didn't make it, and there was great
arguing as to whether it was because of the currents or of lack of
strength... There were rumblings in the Giants' Causeway...very
strange... A woman in Oran had the second sight, the most powerful gift
of second sight in generations... There was a new piper in Islay, and
it was said he was a second McCrimmon... And a new poet had arisen in
Uist, and all over the Highlands they were reciting his songs and his
"Lament for the Bruce"... Was I still as keen for, did I still remember
the poems, and the great stories?...

"'Behold, the night is of great length,'" I quoted, "'Unbearable. Tell
us, therefore, of those wondrous deeds.'"

"If you've remembe