strange waters, of sweating under tropical skies. He had come back again, to the place where he belonged. And the air had a softness to it, belonging to no other country, the very hills were magic, with the morning mist upon them.
Aunt Lizette had doubted that he could live alone at Clonmere, twenty miles from any railway station. He would not know, she had said, what to do with himself; assuming that because he was war Weary he must be restless too, seeking company, and sport, and entertainment. John-Henry smiled, for restlessness belonged to the days at Salonika, where nothing was certain and nothing was true and fear was present in great measure; a man who trod his own soil and smelt his own land could never be restless, not if he loved it well. As for company, why, he had his own thoughts and dreams to spin at leisure, and the fascinating exploration of the past to make him understand the present.
What was John-Henry but the outcome of the years?
And looking back into the past he would learn about the future. Maybe a hundred years ago old Copper John had travelled this same road from Slane to Mundy, in confidence and strength, bequeathing to his great-great- grandson no ruggedness of character, no hardness of heart or monetary ambition, nothing but a strange facility for figures; so that lightning sums in the head and absurd mathematical calculations were the easiest thing in the world! Irony of time, that this was the only legacy handed down from the founder of the family fortunes, whose life's work, the copper mines, lay rusted and lichen-covered in the folds of Hungry Hill. Why, thought John-Henry, do I have a sentimentality for very small puppies, and birds that are maimed, and even wounded, blundering bumble bees? Is it because the son of Copper John loved greyhounds better than men, and could not destroy as much as a wasp upon a window-pane, for the good God made all things to live under the sun?
As he drove, bits and pieces of family history came back to him that his mother had gleaned for him from time to time, because she knew he loved the past.
The turbulent Fanny-Rosa, who ran stocking-less in the dew and broke the hearts of men, and her own as well perhaps, though she told it to no one; and the soft-eyed Jane of the picture, with her hand upon her heart, looking towards Doon Island.
'It was Fanny-Rosa Flower,' his mother had said, nodding wisely, 'who brought the bad blood into the Brodricks.'
Alas, poor Johnnie… His ceremonial swords still hung in the library at Clonmere, crossed, above the mantelpiece.
John-Henry would get them down when he reached home, and clean them, and make them bright again, so that Johnnie in his grave would not feel himself forgotten.
'It will take time, son,' said his mother, 'getting the place to rights again. And you will have to buy furniture, you know, for the new wing.'
'Even if it's the work of a life-time, no matter,' said John-Henry.
If the floors were unscrubbed and cobwebs clung from the corners, at least it would be his plot of earth, his kingdom. Sport and entertainment; Aunt Lizette had wondered about these.
There were woodcock and hares on the island, and snipe in the bogs by Kileen; killigs in the creek, and little brown trout in the lake on Hungry Hill. The people of Doonhaven were all the neighbours he wanted; and if the parson and the priest would sink their differences and take cold pig with him on Sunday, why, he would have done all that was necessary for the future of his country.
The dull miles lay behind him, and in front rose the pass, wild and rocky, with the heather and the gorse amidst the granite, tumbling to the road's edge. This, thought John-Henry, was where Copper John rode in his post-chaise the day he signed the lease for the copper mines with Robert Lumley, and Robert Lumley himself would have travelled down in gloomy state to Castle Andriff, from his solitary mansion at Duncroom, which lies naked to the skies now, razed to the earth by the rebels. The bitter feud-for what fine purpose and to what good end? Once again, John-Henry wondered why men must kill one another and spill blood under God's sky, when the gorse is scented, and the heather blows, and the snipe whistle and tumble in the bogs?
He slowed down the car, for the pass was narrow here, and as he turned the bend he saw, right in front of him, a barricade of torn heather and loose wire lying across the road, and beside it a man standing with a rifle in his hand. John-Henry drove slowly to the barricade and switched off his engine. The man did not move, except to cover him with the rifle, and then, putting two fingers in his mouth, he whistled loud and shrill. Some half-dozen figures crept down from the boulders above the pass. All of them were armed.
John-Henry knew none of them. One, he supposed their leader, came to the door of the car and leant upon it.
'What's your name?' he said curtly.
'John-Henry Brodrick.'
'Where are you going?'
'To my home, Clonmere, at Doonhaven.'
'You served in the Royal Navy in the war, didn't you?'
'I did.'
'What are your politics?'
'I have none.'
'Were you staying last night in the Hotel Metropole in Slane?'
'I was.'
'All right.' He jerked his head to a couple of his companions.
'I shall have to ask you to get out of your car.'
'What for?'
'That's our business. You'll not be harmed if you go quietly. Try to be funny with us, and we'll put a bullet between your shoulder-blades.'
'What are you going to do to my car?'
'You won't see it again. Cars are too precious to us.'
The man grinned for the first time. John-Henry shrugged his shoulders.
'I was warned not to take my car on the road.
I've only myself to blame. Go ahead then. What do you want me to do?'
'Stand still while we bandage your eyes. I tell you again, we're not going to hurt you. Now put your wrists behind your back. Take his arm, Tim-you know what to do if he plays tricks.'
What a damned fool he had been to fall into this trap! They had told him in Slane it was an act of lunacy to take a car out upon the road. And now he would probably be shot in the back and left to die on the hills. It was the loss of his car that angered him most. The old car, the faithful friend, being driven to hell and damaged by these madmen. No hope of ever getting it back again, of course. He cursed and swore uselessly to himself, as he stumbled over the heather and the stones, a man guiding him on either side.
They must have walked three miles or more, in heaven knew what direction, before they came to a standstill, and there was a sound of a door being unlocked, and someone saying something in a low voice, and then the bandage was removed from his eyes and the bands from his wrists, and he was standing on the mud floor of an abandoned cabin.
There was some loose straw in the corner. The small window was blocked with rags, and the hearth was black with long-burnt sticks and ashes.
'You'll have to stay here awhile,' said the man who had unbound him. 'I shall be outside on the hill, and my orders are to put lead into you should you run. I'll be bringing you something to eat and to drink.'
'How long,' said John-Henry, 'is this foolery to go on? And what am I supposed to have done?'
'I don't know anything about it,' said the man.
'I have my orders, that's good enough for me.'
And he went out, bolting the door behind him.
Oh, God damn them all, thought John-Henry; what in hell's name do they want with me, and why must I be mixed up in a revolution which means less than nothing to me, and with which I have no concern? He went and sat down upon the straw, for there was no chair or bench, and presently the man was as good as his word and brought him some bread, and some very sour cheese, and a pitcher of water.
'You haven't any ale, I suppose?' asked John-Henry.
'I have not,' said the man, 'but I have a flask on me with a drop of whisky in it, and you can have a spot of it
