Volume VII - Modernist Magazines Project

11 o The Truce of the Bishopgreater calmness than before. " All my life I have not shed anyman's blood, because it did not seem to me to be wholly a goodthing to do, and I hesitated. But now, in my old age, my lastday, I have only one mind in me. You and your people havecome where no one asked you, and you have put massacre anddesolation of famine and destruction upon us, when we had notdeserved it. And I have told you that our truce is ended, and youwill not be believing it, and now I will prove it to you."Upon the word he smote the captain in the face with onehand, and with the other plunged his skene into his neck. Thetwo men clutched each other, and as they toppled, writhing, to theground, rival cries of battle split the air. The English, with fullmouthedoaths and shouts of wrath, hurled themselves forward.The Irish, huddling backward to guard their unarmed folk, raiseda defiant answering yell, and fought in wild despair. They werehewn down where they stood, and after them their priests andwomen and children. Nothing that had come out of Dunbeekinwas left with a breath in it.The English captain, chalk-faced, and with his throat swathedin stained bandages, leant upon his sword while the straps of hiscuirass were unbuckled, and the cumbrous breastplate lifted fromhim. He looked down with a rueful, musing half-smile at thetrampled form of an old man which had been dragged out froma confused pile of bodies, and lay stretched at his feet. The headwas bruised and the white hair was torn and clotted, but thewithered upturned face, looking very small and waxen now, worean aspect of pride and sweetness which moved him. He gentlypushed the hair aside from the marble temples with his boot, andsighed as he looked again." Shall we send the head to Cork ? " asked another officer,resting on one knee beside the body. " After all, he was alord