Mustapha if he swung round or reared to topple over where the bog-pools
lay dark and silent below the road, on either side.

A thought came to her with some sense of companionship that Patsy Kenny
was doubtless listening round the corner of the stables for the sound
of Mustapha's hoofs, coming closer and closer. She had thought she
heard them so often without hearing them. Before she came down the
stairs to dinner, she had turned into the private chapel to say her
night-prayers, praying for her beloved ones, and for all the world; and
as she knelt there in the dimness she had been almost certain she heard
Mustapha come. Now, sitting by the drawing-room fire, the river of
prayer went flowing through her heart, half articulate, broken into by
the effort of listening that might become something tense and aching.

The dinner gong began, rising to a roar and falling away again. She
smiled as she stood up, saying to herself that Reilly sounded the gong
with a sense of the climax.

As she stood up the Poms bristled and Shot suddenly barked and
listened. He sat up on his haunches and threw back his head and
howled. The dogs knew the master was out and that something vexed the
mistress, and were uneasy.

As she passed across the hall, her golden-brown dress catching the
light of the lamps, suddenly the hall door opened. There came in the
wind and the rain. The lamps flared. Patsy Kenny stood in the
doorway. He was very wet. As he took off his hat mechanically the
rain dripped from it. His hair was plastered down on his face and the
rain was in his eyes. He was panting as though he had run very hard.

"The master's comin'," he said with a sound like a sob. "He's not
kilt, though he's hurted. I'm telling you the truth, jewel. It was
well there was a pig-fair in Meelick to-morrow or he might have lain
out all night. An' wasn't it the Mercy o' God the cart didn't drive
over him?"

"Where is he?" she asked, going to the door and peering out into the
darkness. "Where is he?"

"He's comin'. They're carryin' him on the tail-board o' the cart.
He's not kilt. Did ye ever know your poor Patsy to decave you yet? I
ran ahead lest ye'd die wid the fright. Here, hould a light, you."

He spoke to Reilly, who had never been spoken to so unceremoniously in
the whole course of his professional career. The hall was full of the
servants by this time, peering and pushing from the inner hall with
curious or disturbed