're driven already to torment him. [He shakes his
head, and goes slowly away across the hill in the opposite
direction, lost in thought].

By this time the car has arrived, and dropped three of its
passengers on the high road at the foot of the hill. It is a
monster jaunting car, black and dilapidated, one of the last
survivors of the public vehicles known to earlier generations as
Beeyankiny cars, the Irish having laid violent tongues on the
name of their projector, one Bianconi, an enterprising Italian.
The three passengers are the parish priest, Father Dempsey;
Cornelius Doyle, Larry's father; and Broadbent, all in overcoats
and as stiff as only an Irish car could make them.

The priest, stout and fatherly, falls far short of that finest
type of countryside pastor which represents the genius of
priesthood; but he is equally far above the base type in which a
strongminded and unscrupulous peasant uses the Church to extort
money, power, and privilege. He is a priest neither by vocation
nor ambition, but because the life suits him. He has boundless
authority over his flock, and taxes them stiffly enough to be a
rich man. The old Protestant ascendency is now too broken to gall
him. On the whole, an easygoing, amiable, even modest man as long
as his dues are paid and his authority and dignity fully
admitted.

Cornelius Doyle is an elder of the small wiry type, with a
hardskinned, rather worried face, clean shaven except for sandy
whiskers blanching into a lustreless pale yellow and quite white
at the roots. His dress is that of a country-town titan of
business: that is, an oldish shooting suit, and elastic sided
boots quite unconnected with shooting. Feeling shy with
Broadbent, he is hasty, which is his way of trying to appear
genial.

Broadbent, for reasons which will appear later, has no luggage
except a field glass and a guide book. The other two have left
theirs to the unfortunate Patsy Farrell, who struggles up the
hill after them, loaded with a sack of potatoes, a hamper, a fat
goose, a colossal salmon, and several paper parcels.

Cornelius leads the way up the hill, with Broadbent at his heels.
The priest follows; and Patsy lags laboriously behind.

CORNELIUS. This is a bit of a climb, Mr. Broadbent; but it's
shorter than goin round be the road.

BROADBENT [stopping to examine the great stone]. Just a moment,
Mr Doyle: I want to look at this stone. It must be Finian's
die-cast.

CORNELIUS [in blank be