hir, rose on either side of
the pale radiance of the river, with the slender arch of the bridge
joining them, as if to show in allegory their inherent oneness, their
joint access to the water of life. Religion counted for but little
with Larry in those days, yet as the wonder of beauty sank into his
soul, that was ever thirsty for beauty, the thought of what it would
mean for Ireland if the symbol of the linking bridge had its
counterpart in reality sprang into his eager mind. Then he thought of
himself and Christian, and knew that religion could never come between
him and her, and, as the close-followed thought of what these last
days had brought, rose in his mind, the wonder of it overwhelmed him.
He told himself that the only possible explanation of her caring for
such as he, was that Narcissus-like, she had seen her own image
reflected in his heart, and had fallen in love with it. The fancy
attracted him; he rode on, his mind set on a sonnet that should fitly
enshrine the thought, and politics and religion, symbols and ideals,
faded, as the stars go out when the sun comes.

For the last couple of miles before Cluhir was reached the road and
the river ran their parallel course in a line that was nearly direct,
and, from a long way off, Larry was aware of the figure of a man and
woman and a dog, preceding him towards the town. He noted presently
that the dog had passed from view, and then he saw the man and the
woman hurry across the road and pass through the gateway of a field.
He was soon level with the gate. There was a little knot of people
just within the field, and in the moment of perceiving that the woman
was Tishy Mangan, he also saw that a fierce fight was in progress
between two dogs.

"Oh, stop them, stop them!" Tishy was screaming. "That's my father's
dog, and he'll be killed!"

She belaboured the dogs, futilely, with her parasol.

The man who was with her, a tall and elaborately well-dressed young
gentleman with a red moustache, confined himself, very wisely, to loud
exhortations to the remainder of the group, who were lads from the
town, to call off their dog; and the remainder of the group, with
equal wisdom and greater candour, were unanimously asserting that they
would be "in dhread" to touch the combatants. The dogs were well
matched--strong, yellow-red Irish terriers; each had the other by the
side of the throat, and each, with the deep, snuffling gurgles of
strenuous combat, was trying to bet