throat. He turned into his whare and banged the door.
Father Denis had been up the river for a christening that day. Through the morning heat his pony had crawled and sweated and loitered by each clump of bush. But it came home before a whipping wind and a rattle of thunder that shook the hills. Then the housekeeper—she was the only human being to whom Father Denis gave obedience—ordered dried clothes and a fire and warm food. So the priest turned his back on the fury of the swift night, and returned thanks for comfort.
“An’ ut’s all of a rough noight we’ll be havin’ on us, sure,” he said, with both slippers on the fender. “Bedad, I’m hopin’ as no wan will be afther choosin’ ut for dyin’ in, and want me out—now, if that is a body come cryin’ on me—begorra! Ormond, bhoy! I’m glad tu see ye. Ut is not a buryin’ or a christenin’ ye’ll be wantin’ out ov me the noight, eh?”
Ormond walked straight up to the fire, and his eyes were strange.
“I’ve left her,” he said. “I’ve left her. Father! I’ve left the Lion!”
Father Denis had loved a woman once. He loved her better now. To the best of his belief Ormond had loved the Lion instead. And Ormond would love it more dearly now the ways had parted them. Father Denis knew all this even as he came to his feet in haste.
