There was much to marvel3 at and discuss at length in garrulous4 groups before the cottage doors. One whole wing of the ancient convent structure—that which tradition ascribed to the pious5 building fervor6 of Cathal an Diomuis, or “the Haughty”—had been thrown down during the night, and lay now a tumbled mass of stones and timber piled in wild disorder7 upon the d茅bris of previous ruins. But inasmuch as the fallen building had long been roofless and disused, and its collapse8 meant only another added layer of chaos9 in the deserted10 convent-yard, Muirisc did not worry its head much about it, and even yawned in Cormac O’Daly’s face as he wandered from one knot of gossips to another, relating legends about Cathal the Proud.
What interested them considerably11 more was the report, confirmed now by O’Daly himself, that just before the crash came, six people in the reception hall of the convent had distinctly heard the voice of the Hostage from the depths below the cloistral12 building. Everybody in Muirisc knew all about the Hostage. They had been, so to speak, brought up with him. Prolonged familiarity with the pathetic story of his death in exile, here at Muirisc, and constant contact with his name as perpetuated13 in the title of their unique convent, made him a sort of oldest inhabitant of the place. Their lively imaginations now quickly built up and established the belief that he was heard to complain, somewhere under the convent, once every fifty years. Old Ellen Dumphy was able to fix the period with exactness because when the mysterious sound was last heard she was a young woman, and had her face bound up, and was almost “disthracted wid the sore teeth.”
But most interesting of all was the fact that there, before their eyes, riding easily upon the waters of the Muirisc, lay the Hen Hawk14, as peacefully and safely at anchor as if no gale16 had ever thundered upon the cliffs outside. The four men of her crew, when they made their belated appearance in the morning sunlight out-of-doors, were eagerly questioned, and they told with great readiness and a flowering wealth of adjectives the marvelous story of how The O’Mahony aimed her in pitch darkness at the bar, and hurled17 her over it at precisely18 the psychological moment, with just the merest scraping of her keel. To the seafaring senses of those who stood now gazing at the vessel19 there was more witchcraft20 in this than in the subterranean21 voice of the Hostage even.
“Ah, thin, ’tis our O’Mahony’s the grand divil of a man!” they murmured, admiringly.
No work was to be expected, clearly, on the day after such an achievement as this. The villagers stood about, and looked at the squat22 coaster, snugly23 raising and sinking with the lazy movement of the tide, and watched for the master of Muirisc to show himself. They had never before been conscious of such perfect pride in and affection for this strange Americanized chieftain of theirs. By an unerring factional instinct, they felt that this apotheosis24 of The O’Mahony in their hearts involved the discomfiture25 of O’Daly and the nuns26, and they let the hereditary27 bard28 feel it, too.
“Ah, now, Cormac O’Daly,” one of the women called out to the poet, as he hung, black-visaged and dejected, upon the skirts of the group, “tell me man, was it anny of yer owld Diarmids and Cathals ye do be perplexin’ us wid that wud a-steered that boat beyond over the bar at black midnight, wid a gale outside fit to blow mountains into the say? Sure, it’s not botherin’ his head wid books, or delutherin’ his moind wid ancestral mummeries, or wearyin’ the bones an’ marrow29 out of the saints wid attendin’ their business instead of his own, that our O’Mahony do be after practicin’.”
The bard opened his lips to reply. Then the gleam of enjoyment30 in the woman’s words which shone from all the faces roundabout, dismayed him. He shook his head, and walked away in silence. Meanwhile The O’Mahony, after a comfortable breakfast, and a brief consultation31 with Jerry, had put on his hat and strolled out through the pretentious32 arched doorway33 of his tumble-down abode34. From the outer gate he saw the clustered villagers upon the wharf35, and guessed what they were saying and thinking about him and his boat. He smiled contentedly36 to himself, and lighted a cigar. Then, sucking this with gravity, hands in pockets and hat well back on head, he turned and sauntered across the turreted37 corner of his castle into the ancient church-yard, which lay between it and the convent. The place was one crowded area of mortuary wreckage—flat tombstones sunken deep into the earth; monumental tablets, once erect38, now tipping at every crazy angle; pre-historic, weather-beaten runic crosses lying broken and prone39; more modern and ambitious sarcophagi of brick and stone, from which sides or ends had fallen away, revealing to every eye their ghostly contents; the ground covered thickly with nettles40 and umbrageous41 weeds, under which the unguided foot continually encountered old skulls42 and human bones—a grave-yard such as can be seen nowhere in the world save in western Ireland.
The O’Mahony picked his way across this village Golgotha, past the ruins of the ancient church, and into the grounds to the rear of the convent buildings, clambering as he went over whole series of tumbled masonry43 heaped in weed-grown ridges44, until he stood upon the edge of the havoc45 wrought46 by this latest storm.
No rapt antiquary ever gazed with more eagerness upon the remains47 of a pre-Aryan habitation than The O’Mahony now displayed in his scrutiny48 of the destruction worked by last night’s storm, and of the group of buildings its fury had left unscathed. He took a paper from his pocket, and compared a rude drawing upon it with various points in the architecture about him which he indicated with nods of the head. People watching him might have differed as to whether he was a student of antiquities49, a builder or an insurance agent. Probably none would have guessed that he was striving to identify some one of the numerous chimneys-before him with a certain fireplace which he knew of, five-and-twenty feet underground.
As he stood thus, absorbed in calculation, he felt a little hand steal into his big palm, and nestle there confidingly50. His face put on a pleased smile, even before he bent51 it toward the intruder.
“Hello, Skeezucks, is that you?” he said, gently. “Well, they’ve gone an’ busted53 your ole convent up the back, here, in great shape, ain’t they?”
Every one of the score of months that had passed since these two first met, seemed to have added something to the stature54 of little Kate O’Mahony. She had grown, in truth, to be a tall girl for her age—and an erect girl, holding her head well in air, into the bargain. Her face had lost its old shy, scared look—at least in this particular company. It was filling out into the likeness55 of a pretty face, with a pleasant glow of health upon the cheeks, and a happy twinkle in the big, dark eyes.
For answer, the child lifted and swung his hand, and playfully butted56 her head sidewise against his waist.
“’Tis I that wouldn’t mind if it all came down,” she said, in the softest West Carbery brogue the ear could wish.
“What!” exclaimed the other, in mock consternation57. “Well, I never! Why, here’s a gal15 that don’t want to go to school, or learn now to read an’ cipher58 or nothin’! P’r’aps you’d ruther work in the lobster59 fact’ry?”
“No, I’d sail in the boat with you,” said Kate, promptly60 and with confidence.
The O’Mahony laughed aloud.
“I guess you’d a got your fill of it yisterday, sis,” he remarked.
“It’s that I’d have liked best of all,” she pursued. “Ah! take me with you, O’Mahony, whin next the waves are up and the wind’s tearin’ fit to bust52 itsilf. I’ll not die till I’ve been out in the thick of it, wance for all.”
“Why, gal alive, you’d a-be’n smashed into sausage-meat!” chuckled61 the man. “Still, you’re right, though. They ain’t nothin’ else in the world fit to hold a candle to it. Egad! Some time I will take you, sis!”
The child spoke62 more seriously:
“Sure, we’re the O’Mahonys of the Coast of White Foam63, according to O’Heerin’s old verse, and it’s in my blood as well as yours.”
“Right you are, sis!” he responded, smiling, as he added under his breath: “an’ mebbe a trifle more.” Then, after a moment’s pause, he changed the subject.
“See here; you’re up on these things—in fact, they don’t seem to learn you anything else—hain’t I heerd O’Daly tell about the old O’Mahonys luggin’ round a box full o’ saints’ bones when they went on a rampage, to sort o’ give ’em luck! I got to thinkin’ about it last night after I went to bed, but I couldn’t jest git it straight in my head.”
“It’s the cathach” (she pronounced it caha) “you mane,” Kate answered. “Sometimes it contained bones, but more often ’twas a crozieror a holy book from the saint’s own pen, or a part of his vest-mints.”
“No; I like the bones notion best," said The O’Mahony. “There’s something substantial an’ solid about bones. If you’ve got a genuine saint’s bones, it’s a thing he’s bound to take an interest in, an’ see through; whereas, them other things—his books an’ his clo’se an’ so on—why, he may a-been sick an’ tired of ’em years ’fore he died.”
It was the girl’s turn to laugh.
“It’s a strange new fit of piety64 ye’ve on yeh, O’Mahony,” she said, with the familiarity of a spoiled pet. “Sure, when I tell the nuns, they’ll be lookin’ to see you build up a whole foine new convint for ‘em without delay.”
“No; I’m savin’ that till you git to be the boss nun,” said The O’Mahony, dryly, and with a grin.
“’Tis older than Methusalem ye’ll be thin!” asked the child, laughingly. And with that she seized his hand once more and dragged him forward to a closer inspection65 of the ruins.
Some hours later, having been driven across country to Dunmanway by Malachy, and thence taken the local train onward66, The O’Mahony found himself in the station at Ballineen, with barely time enough to hurry across the tracks and leap into the train which was already starting westward67. In this he was borne back over the road he had just traversed, until a stop was made at Manch station. The O’Mahony alighted here, much pleased with the strategy which made him appear to have come from the east. He took an outside car, and was driven some two miles into the bleak68, mountainous country beyond Toome, to a wayside inn known as Kearney’s Retreat. Here he dismounted, bidding the carman solace69 himself with drink, and wait.
Entering the tavern70, he paused at the bar and asked for two small bottles of porter to be poured in one glass. Two or three men were loitering about the room, and he spoke just loud enough to make sure that all might hear him. Then, having drained the glass, and stood idly conversing71 for a minute or two with the woman at the bar, he made his way through a side door into the adjoining ball alley72, where some young fellows of the neighborhood chanced to be engaged in a game.
He stood apart, watching their play, for only a few moments. Then one of the men whom he had seen but not looked closely at in the bar, came up to him, and said from behind, in an interrogative whisper:
“Captain Harrier, I believe?”
“Yes,” said The O’Mahony, “Captain Harrier—” with a vague notion of having heard that voice before.
Then he turned, and in the straggling roof-light of the alley beheld73 the other’s face. It taxed to the utmost every element of self-possession in him to choke down the exclamation74 which sprang to his lips.
The man before him was Linsky!—Linsky risen from the dead, with the scarred gash75 visible on his throat, and the shifty blue-green eyes still bloodshot, and set with reddened eyelids76 in a freckled77 face.
“Yes—Captain—Harrier,” he repeated, lingering upon each word, as his brain fiercely strove to assert mastery over amazement78, apprehension79 and perplexity.
The new-comer looked full into the The O’Mahony’s face without any sign whatever of recognition.
“Thin I’m to place mesilf at your disposal,” he said, briefly80. “You know more of what’s in the air than I do, no doubt. Everything is arranged, I hear, for rising in both Cork81 an’ Tralee to-morrow, an’ in manny places in both counties besides. Officially, however, I know nothing of this—an’ have no right to know. I’m just to put mysilf at your command, and deliver anny messages you desire to sind to other cinters in your district. Here’s me papers.”
The O’Mahony barely glanced at the inclosures of the envelope handed him. They took the familiar form of a business letter of introduction, and a commercial contract, signed by a firm-name which to the uninitiated bore no significance. He noted82 that the name given was “Major Lynch.” He observed also, with satisfaction, that his hand, as it held the papers, was entirely83 steady. “Everybody’s been notified,” he said, after a time, instinctively84 assuming a slight hoarseness85 of speech. “I’ve been all over the ground, myself. You can meet me—let’s see—say at the bottom of the black rock jest overlookin’ the marteller tower at——at eleven o’clock, sharp, to-morrow forenoon. The rocks behind the tower, mind—t’other side of the coast-guard houses. You’ll see me land from my boat.”
“I’ll not fail,” said the other. “I can bring a gun—moryah, I’m shooting at say-gulls.”
“They ain’t much need of that,” responded The O’Mahony. “You might git stopped an’ questioned. There’ll be guns enough. Of course, the takin’ of the tower’ll be as easy as rollin’ off a log. The thing’ll be to hold it afterward86.”
“We’ll howld whatever we take, sir, all Ireland over,” said Major Lynch, with enthusiasm.
“I hope so! Good-bye. Mind, eleven sharp,” was the response, and the two men separated.
The O’Mahony did not wait for the finish of the game of ball, but sauntered out of the alley through the end door, walked to his car, and set off direct for Toome. At this place he decided87 to drive on to Dunmanway station. Dismissing the carman at the door, and watching his departure, he walked over to the hotel, joined the waiting Malachy, and soon was well on his jolting88 way back to Muirisc.
Curiously89 enough, the bearing of Linsky’s return upon his own personal fortunes and safety bore a very small part in The O’Mahony’s meditations90, as he clung to his seat over the rough homeward road. All that might take care of itself, and he pushed it almost contemptuously aside in his mind. What he did ponder upon unceasingly, and with growing distrust, was the suspicion with which the manner of the man’s offer to deliver messages had inspired him.
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1
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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ravages
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| 劫掠后的残迹，破坏的结果，毁坏后的残迹 | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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cloistral
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| adj.修道院的，隐居的，孤独的 | |
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perpetuated
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| vt.使永存（perpetuate的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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gal
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| n.姑娘，少女 | |
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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snugly
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| adv.紧贴地；贴身地；暖和舒适地；安适地 | |
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apotheosis
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| n.神圣之理想；美化；颂扬 | |
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discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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turreted
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| a.(像炮塔般)旋转式的 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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nettles
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| n.荨麻( nettle的名词复数 ) | |
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umbrageous
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| adj.多荫的 | |
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skulls
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| 颅骨( skull的名词复数 )； 脑袋； 脑子； 脑瓜 | |
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masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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44
ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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45
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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46
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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47
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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48
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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49
antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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50
confidingly
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| adv.信任地 | |
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51
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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52
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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53
busted
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| adj. 破产了的，失败了的，被降级的，被逮捕的，被抓到的 动词bust的过去式和过去分词 | |
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54
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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55
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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56
butted
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| 对接的 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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58
cipher
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| n.零；无影响力的人；密码 | |
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59
lobster
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| n.龙虾，龙虾肉 | |
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60
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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61
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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63
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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64
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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66
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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68
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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70
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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71
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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72
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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73
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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74
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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75
gash
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| v.深切，划开；n.(深长的)切(伤)口；裂缝 | |
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76
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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77
freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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79
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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80
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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81
cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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82
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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83
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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84
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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85
hoarseness
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| n.嘶哑， 刺耳 | |
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86
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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87
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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88
jolting
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| adj.令人震惊的 | |
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89
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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90
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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