“I didn’t say a word,” said the man.
“And there’s a stick in your hand that would crack the skull of a mountain, let alone a man.”
“It’s a good stick,” said the man.
“Would you be calling it the brother or the husband of the one that the woman has in her happy hands.”
“I would be calling it a stick only,” replied the man.
“That’s the name for it surely,” said Patsy, “for a stick hasn’t got a soul any more than a woman has, and isn’t that a great mercy and a great comfort, for heaven would be full of women and wood, and there would be no room for the men and the drink.”
The red-haired woman strode to Patsy and, putting her hand against his breast, she gave him a great push:
“If you’re talking,” said she, “or if you’re fighting, turn to myself, for the man doesn’t know you.”
Patsy did turn to her with a great laugh:
“It’s the one pleasure of my life to have your hands on me,” he gibed. “Give me another puck now, and a hard one, the way I’ll feel you well.”
The woman lifted her ash-plant threateningly and crouched towards him, but the look on his face was such that she let her hand fall again.
“You’re full of fun,” said Patsy, “and you always were, but we’re going to be the great friends from now on, yourself and myself and the man with the stick; we’ll be going by shortcuts everywhere in the world, and having a gay time.”
“We’re not going with you, Padraig,” said the woman, “and whatever road you are taking this day the man and myself will be going another road.”
“Whoo!” said Patsy, “there are roads everywhere, so you’re all right, and there are men on every one of the roads.”
XIV
While this conversation had been taking place the others stood in a grave semicircle, and listened intently to their words.
Caeltia, regarding the sky, intervened:
“The rain will be here in a minute, so we had better walk on and look for shelter.”
Mac Cann detached his heavy regard from Eileen Ni Cooley, and swept the sky and the horizon.
“That is so,” said he. “Let us go ahead now, for we’ve had our talk, and we are all satisfied.”
“There is a broken-down house stuck up a bohereen,” he continued. “It’s only a few perches up this road, for I remember passing the place the last time I was this way; that place will give us shelter while the rain spills.”
He turned his stubborn face to the woman:
“You can come with us if you like, and you can stay where you are if you like, or you can go to the devil,” and, saying so, he tramped after his daughter.
The woman had just caught sight of Art the cherub, and was regarding him with her steady eyes.
“Whoo!” said she, “I’m not the one to be frightened and I never was, so let us all go along and talk about our sins in the wet weather.”
They started anew on the road, Patsy’s company in advance, and behind marched the woman and the man and Art the cherub.
The sun had disappeared; wild clouds were piling themselves in rugged hills along the sky, and the world was growing dull and chill. Against the grey atmosphere Art’s face was in profile, an outline sharp and calm and beautiful.
Eileen Ni Cooley was regarding him curiously as they walked together, and the strange man, with a wry smile on his lips, was regarding her with a like curiosity.
She pointed towards Patsy Mac Cann, who was tramping vigorously a dozen yards ahead.
“Young boy,” said she, “where did you pick up with the man yonder, for the pair of you don’t look matched?”
Art had his hands in his pockets; he turned and looked at her tranquilly.
“Where did you pick up with that man”—he nodded towards her companion—“and where did the man pick up with you, for you don’t look matched either?”
“We’re not,” said the woman quickly; “we’re not matched a bit. That man and myself do be quarrelling all day and all night, and threatening to walk away from each other every minute of the time.”
The man stared at her.
“Is that how it is with us?” said he.
“It is,” said she to Art—“that’s the way it is with us, honey. The man and myself have no love for each other now, and we never had.”
The man halted suddenly; he changed the cudgel to his left hand and thrust out his right hand to her.
“Put your own hand there,” said he, “and shake it well, and then be going along your road.”
“What are you talking about?” said she.
He replied, frowning sternly from his wild eyes:
“I wouldn’t hold the grace of God if I saw it slipping from me, so put your hand into my hand and go along your road.”
Eileen Ni Cooley put her hand into his with some awkwardness and turned away her head.
“There it is for you,” said she.
Then the man turned about and flapped quickly along the path they had already travelled; his cudgel beat the ground with a sharp noise, and he did not once look back.
Before he had taken an hundred paces the rain came, a fine, noiseless drizzle.
“It will be heavy in a minute,” said the woman, “let us run after the cart.”
With a quick movement she tucked her shawl about her head and shoulders and started to run, and Art went after her in alternate long hops of each foot.
They had reached a narrow path running diagonally from the main road.
“Up this way,” shouted Patsy, and the company trooped after him, leaving the ass and cart to the storm.
Two minutes’ distance up the road stood a small, dismantled house. There was a black gape where the window had been, and there were holes in the walls.
