rouble for want of light. I wheeled the coffin to a patch of
loamy soil which I had noticed in the afternoon near the grave of the
holy sisters. I had warmed to my work; my neck no longer pained me;
and I began to dig vigorously, soon making a shallow trench, deep
enough to hide the coffin with the addition of a mound. The chill
pearl-coloured morning had by this time quite dissipated the darkness.
I could see, and was myself visible, for miles around. This alarmed,
and made me impatient to finish my task. Nevertheless, I was forced to
rest for a moment before placing the coffin in the trench. I wiped my
brow and wrists, and again looked about me. The tomb of the holy
women, a massive slab supported on four stone spheres, was grey and
wet with dew. Near it was the thornbush covered with rags, the newest
of which were growing gaudy in the radiance which was stretching up
from the coast on the east. It was time to finish my work. I seized
the truck; laid it alongside the grave; and gradually pried the coffin
off with the spade until it rolled over into the trench with a hollow
sound like a drunken remonstrance from the sleeper within. I shovelled
the earth round and over it, working as fast as possible. In less than
a quarter of an hour it was buried. Ten minutes more sufficed to make
the mound symmetrical, and to clear the adjacent ward. Then I flung
down the spade; threw up my arms; and vented a sigh of relief and
triumph. But I recoiled as I saw that I was standing on a barren
common, covered with furze. No product of man's handiwork was near me
except my truck and spade and the grave of Brimstone Billy, now as
lonely as before. I turned towards the water. On the opposite bank was
the cemetery, with the tomb of the holy women, the thornbush with its
rags stirring in the morning breeze, and the broken mud wall. The
ruined chapel was there, too, not a stone shaken from its crumbling
walls, not a sign to shew that it and its precinct were less rooted in
their place than the eternal hills around.

I looked down at the grave with a pang of compassion for the
unfortunate Wolf Tone Fitzgerald, with whom the blessed would not
rest. I was even astonished, though I had worked expressly to this
end. But the birds were astir, and the cocks crowing. My landlord was
an early riser. I put the spade on the truck again, and hastened back
to the farm, where I replaced them in the cow-house. Then I stole into
the house, and took a clean