it might well be that the yeomanry, being so busy,
would never think of the Island.

Father Anthony prayed that it might be so, and the elements conspired
to help him. There were many storms and high tides that set the Island
riding in safety. Father Anthony went up and down comforting those
whose husbands, sons, and brothers were in the Inferno over yonder.
The roses in his old cheeks withered, and his blue eyes were faded
with many tears for his country and his people. He prayed incessantly
that the agony of the land might cease, and that his own most helpless
flock might be protected from the butchery that had been the fate of
many as innocent and helpless.

The little church of gray stone stands as the vanguard of the village,
a little nearer to the mainland, and the spit of sand that runs out
towards it. You ascend to it by a hill, and a wide stretch of green
sward lies before the door. The gray stone presbytery joins the church
and communicates with it. A ragged boreen, or bit of lane, between
rough stone walls runs zigzag from the gate, ever open, that leads to
the church, and wanders away to the left to the village on the rocks
above the sea. Everything is just the same to-day as on that morning
when Father Anthony, looking across to the mainland from the high
gable window of his bedroom, saw on the sands something that made him
dash the tears from his old eyes, and go hastily in search of the
telescope which had been a present from one of those wandering
sea-captains.

As he set his glass to his eye that morning, the lassitude of age and
grief seemed to have left him. For a few minutes he gazed at the
objects crossing the sands--for it was low water--in an attitude tense
and eager. At last he lowered the glass and closed it. He had seen
enough. Four yeomen on their horses were crossing to the island.

He was alone in the house, and as he bustled downstairs and made door
and windows fast, he was rejoiced it should be so. Down below the
village was calm and quiet. The morning had a touch of spring, and the
water was lazily lapping against the sands. The people were within
doors,--of that he was pretty well assured--for the Island was in a
state of terror and depression. There was no sign of life down there
except now and again the barking of a dog or the cackling of a hen.
Unconsciously the little homes waited the death and outrage that were
coming to them as fast as four strong horses could carry them.
'St