Page:The Yellow Book - 07.djvu/110

 For three days he sat in solitude, and all were forbidden his presence. The old servant knew naught save that he wrote for ever on the margins of his book, slowly and with sorry travail. He touched no food or drink in that time, and at night, still stretched half-seated in his chair, with the casket upon his knees, he slumbered fitfully, eager always for the daylight and his writing again.

All Dunbeekin heard of these things, and dwelt in thought on nothing else. It was in no man's mind to set one stone on another in repair of the ruin the English had wrought. No net was put into the bay, and the women lifted not a finger to the task of making curds and white meats. Cattle were killed, and their flesh seethed in new milk, for food; but no cake was baked. The strong meat put a stormy heart into the men. They ground their spear-heads and javelins upon the stones, and cut from the green hides of the slain cattle new covers, soaked and stretched in sea-brine, for their round shields. When they looked one into another's face, a flash of expectant eyes passed, like a beam of sunlight on a skene. Their words were few, though, for the Bishop had a great name in all Carbery, and the shadow of his passing laid a spell upon their tongues.

On the third day, a little after sunrise, a commotion stirred among the priests and the strangers of the prelate's household. The chaplain had been summoned to the room of death, and the Bishop was making his confession. Then doors were opened, and Turlogh with those nearest him went in, until the chamber was filled, and the passage thronged with men lifting themselves on their toes to know what was to happen.

The Bishop, still in his chair, stared out of his eyes helplessly, and drew breaths which fought their way in and out of his vast girth of trunk. The mask which was his face was ashen-gray. The