e the house, and they around
me dying with envy of my state and grandeur. At fair or at wake great
respect they would pay me, and the priests of God would be always
calling. The house, fine lad, give me the house!"

"You'll have to speak to my Uncle Alan."

"Alan Campbell is a hard Northern man."

"Nevertheless, you'll have to speak to him."

"_A mhic mheirdrighe!_" Her mouth hissed. "O son of a harlot!"

Shane wheeled like a sloop coming about.

"You forget I've got the Gaelic myself, old woman."

"Oh, sure, what did I say, fine lad, but _avick machree_, son of my
heart? _Avick machree_, I said. O son of my heart, that's what you are.
You wouldn't take wrong meaning from what an old woman said, and her
with her teeth gone, and under the black clouds of sorrow!"

A glint in the moonlight caught Shane's eyes. He gripped her right hand.

"Is that Moyra's wedding-ring you have on? Did you--did you--take
it--from her hand?"

"Oh, sure, what use would she have for it, and she in the sods of
Ballymaroo? And the grand Australian gold is in it, worth a mint of
money. And what use would you have for it, and you in strange parts,
where a passionate foreign woman would be giving you love, maybe? The
fine lad you are, will draw the heart of many. But it's drawing back
coldly they'd be, and they seeing that on your finger, or on a ribbon
around your neck. Drawing back they'd be, and giving the love was yours
to another fellow. A sin to waste the fine Australian gold it is. And
you wouldn't begrudge me the price of a couple o' heifers would grow
into grand cows? You wouldn't, fine lad--"

He flung her hand from him so savagely that she fell, and he went
swiftly toward the house where the dead woman was. Back of him in the
haggard came the _glug-glug_ of the naggin bottle, and from down the
loaning came the rich, untrained contralto of the singing girl:

"Nor shoe nor stocking will I put on, nor comb go in my hair.
And neither coal nor candle-light shine in my chamber fair.
Nor will I wed with any young man until the day I die,
Since the low lowlands of Holland are between my love and me."

Section 3

As he paused at the half-door, the laughter and the chatter in the
kitchen ceased, and he was aware of the blur of faces around the room,
white faces of men and women and alien eyes. Over the peat fire--there
was a fire even in June--the great black kettle sang on the crane, to
make tea for the mourners. Here a