Volume VII - Modernist Magazines Project

By Harold Frederic 91of unkempt, barbarous aspect, herding droves of swift-footed littleblack cattle along the narrow defiles ; tall women, wholly muffledfrom view in huge hooded cloaks of black or scarlet, bearingburdens upon their heads, and dragging forward children by thehands ; then more horses and cattle, moving under high bundlesof mountain grass and bracken freshly cut, and, at the tail, a scoreor more of straggling men, with quilted jackets, and pikes upontheir shoulders.In front of all walked Turlogh, with his doctor and his chaplainat his side. The last vague glimmer of daylight in the eveningair fell upon these three, as they felt the burnt stubble of thenearest field under their sandalled feet, and saw the black bulk ofDunbeekin loom close before them. There was doubt on thefaces of the priest and the leech, but old Turlogh threw his headback, and looked into the dusky finish of the day with a smile athis lips and a resolute eye.IIHours later, in the shine of the harvest moon, the Lord ofDunbeekin stood upon the strand with a moiety of his people, andsaw others of his men, wading waist-deep in the whitened waters,bear towards him in their arms his great guest, the Bishop.Already there had come to land, by means of the little boat,some dozen priests and servants. These latter, subtle-faced andproud like all menials of the tonsured folk, held aloof in silence.Two of the younger priests, with the tails of their drenched gownsunder their arms, stood at Turlogh's side, and spoke to him inwhispers of strange matters. The Bishop, they said, was in thegrasp of a mortal sickness. Nothing but the holy relics hebrought