nd there were bunches of new clay pipes
scattered, and long rolls of twisted tobacco, for the men to smoke, and
saucers full of snuff for both men and women. A great paraffin lamp
threw broad, opaque shadows, making the whole a strange blur in the
kitchen, while in the bedroom opening off it, where the tense, dead
woman lay, was a glare of candles as from footlights, and there gathered
the old women of the neighborhood, discussing everything in hushed,
vindictive whispers--the price of cows, morbid diseases, the new wife
some man had, and whether such a girl was with child.... And the dead
woman, who had loved talk such as this, as a drunkard loves the glass,
gave no heed.... Strange!... And every hour or so they would flash to
their knees, like some quick instinctive movement of birds, and now
carelessly, now over-solemnly they would say a rosary for the dead
woman's soul:

"_Ar n-Athair, ta ar neamh_--" they would gabble. "Our Father, Who art
in Heaven--" and then a long suspiration: "'_Se do bheatha, 'Mhuire_!"
"Hail, Mary! Full of grace!"

But in the kitchen they would be laughing, chatting, playing crude
forfeits, telling grotesque stories, giving riddles, and now, to the
muted sound of a melodeon, a man would dance a hornpipe.... And men
would sneak out to the byre in twos and threes for a surreptitious glass
of whisky.... And suddenly they would rush in and join in the rosary:

"_Ar n-Athair, ta ar neamh_.... _Se do bheatha, 'Mhuire!_ ..."

It was all so grotesque, so empty, so play-actor-like--so inharmonious
with Death! Death was very terrible or very peaceful, thought Shane
Campbell of the sea and the Antrim Glens. "Down from your horse when
Death or the King goes by," went the Antrim old word. But here the house
of death was a booth of Punchinello.

[Illustration]

More aware even than of the indignity of it all was he of the hatred
about him. They hated him for his alien race, his alien faith. Not
one of the men but would have killed him had they had courage,
because his head was high, his step firm. The women hated him because he
had chosen one from among them and given her honor and gifts. And his
wife's mother hated him with the venomous, nauseous hatred that old
women bear. And yet they'd have loved him if he'd given way to
hysterical, unprofound grief, or become ... drunk! They'd have
understood him. But all they had for him was hatred now. Even the dead
woman on the bed hated him.... Ah, well, o