blessing. She
rose with sparkling eyes.

"It is a good morning!" she said, as one who having done her duty could
be cheerful.

"It is a very fine morning," the Bishop answered in the same spirit.
"The sun shines on us, as we would have him shine. And after breakfast,
with your leave, my daughter, and your brother's leave, we will hold a
little council. What say you, Colonel Sullivan?" he continued, turning
to the Colonel. "A family council? Will you join us?"

The McMurrough uttered an exclamation, so unexpected and strident, that
the words were not articulate. But the Bishop understood them, for, as
all turned to him, "Nay," he said, "it shall be for the Colonel to say.
But it's ill arguing with a fasting man," he continued genially, "and
by your leave we will return to the matter after breakfast!"

"I am not for argument at all," Captain Machin said. It was the first
time he had spoken.

CHAPTER X

A COUNCIL OF WAR

The meal had been eaten, stolidly by some, by others with a poor
appetite, by Colonel John with a thoughtful face. Two men of family,
but broken fortunes, old Sir Donny McCarthy of Dingle, and Timothy
Burke of Maamtrasna, had joined the party--under the rose as it were,
and neither giving nor receiving a welcome. Now old Darby kept the door
and the Bishop the hearth; whence, standing with his back to the
glowing peat, he could address his audience with eye and voice. The
others, risen from the table, had placed themselves here and there,
Flavia near the Bishop and on his right hand, Captain Machin on his
left; The McMurrough, the two O'Beirnes, Sir Donny and Timothy Burke,
with the other strangers, sat in a knot by the window. Uncle Ulick with
Colonel Sullivan formed a third group. The courtyard, visible through
the windows, seethed with an ever-increasing crew of peasantry,
frieze-coated or half bare, who whooped and jabbered, now about one of
their number, now about another. Among them moved some ten or twelve
men of another kidney--seamen with ear-rings and pigtails, bronzed
faces and gaudy kerchiefs, who listened but idly, and with the contempt
of the mercenary, but whose eyes seldom left the window behind which
the conference sat, and whose hands were never far from the hilt of a
cutlass or the butt of a pistol. The sun shone on the crowd and the
court, and now and then those within the house caught through the
gateway the shimmer of the lake beyond. The Irish air was soft, the hum
o