Caeltia advanced to Patsy, but Mac Cann was embarrassed. He had been kissed by a man, so he lit his pipe in self-defence and kept it in his mouth.
“You’re going off?” said he to Caeltia, and he puffed like a chimney.
“I’m going off,” replied Caeltia in a low voice.
Patsy took the pipe from his mouth and put it into the seraph’s hand.
“Here,” said he, “take a last pull at that and ease your heart.”
Caeltia did take it, and he smoked it, and it did ease his heart.
“I’ll give you the spade out of the cart,” continued Patsy, “for you’ll have to dig the things up. There it is, and it doesn’t matter whether it’s lost or not.”
“It is goodbye now,” said Caeltia, shouldering the spade, and he returned the pipe to Patsy, who put it instantly in his mouth.
Caeltia held out his hand and Mac Cann put his own into it.
While their hands were together Patsy was seized with compunction—he drew the seraph aside a few paces:
“Listen!” said he. “I played a trick on you the time I was taking the money out of my pocket to throw it away.”
“Yes?” said Caeltia.
“I let one of the gold pieces slip through my fingers, and it’s lying at the bottom of my pocket at this minute, but I’ll throw it away, mister honey, if you say so.”
Caeltia looked at him, and a smile of great contentment crept over his lips.
“If I were you,” said he, “I’d keep it.”
Mac Cann nodded at him very solemnly:
“I’ll keep it,” said he earnestly, “and I’ll spend it.”
Caeltia then said his adieus to the others, and he tramped up the hill with the spade balanced in his hand.
The piece of gold was burning in Patsy’s pocket. He turned to Art:
“Well, young boy! there’s my hand and good luck be with you; give up racing about and climbing trees and you’ll be all right; you’ve the makings of a good hand on you, and that’s a great thing, and you’ve got the music.”
“Goodbye,” said Art, and they shook hands.
Eileen Ni Cooley took his hand also, then she and Patsy strode to the cart, and with the donkey they moved down the hill.
Mary stood in front of Art, and she did not look at him; she turned her grave face away, and stared sidewards where the late sunshine drowsed in gold on the rough slopes. She put her hand out to him.
He took her hand and held it between his own; he raised it to his lips and he held it there pressing against his mouth.
He dropped it, and stood back a pace staring at her; he struck his hands together in a wild movement; he turned and ran swiftly after his companions.
These two had never spoken to each other.
Near the top of the hill he came on Finaun and Caeltia, and the three went together.
In a little they reached the point in the road where they had slept during their first night on earth, and where they had eaten their first meal on a sunny morning. Distant a few paces they saw the tree.
Caeltia dug there until he uncovered the sacks. He pulled these from the clay and opened them, and each of the angels retrieved his own belongings from the medley.
Finaun was urgent and thoughtful. He apparelled himself hastily, while, with less speed, Caeltia also achieved his change. But Art sat on the ground fingering his raiment, and seemed to be lost in a contemplation of the grass beside him.
Finaun was ready. He stood upright, a kingly figure, shimmering in purple folds. On his head a great crown, closed at the top; across his shoulder a chain of heavy gold, and depending on his breast a broad plaque of gold that blazed.
He looked at the others and nodded, then he leaped, and at a hundred feet the sun flashed from his wings, and he looked like a part of the rainbow.
Now Caeltia was ready, standing in cloth of gold and lovely ornaments of hammered silver. He scanned once more the drowsing landscape; he smiled on Art; he sprang aloft and abroad and sped upwards in a blinding gleam.
Art raised himself.
He lifted the crimson robe that was dashed with gold, the crimson buskins feathered at the heel, the wide crown of short points. He placed these on the ground and stood for a time looking down the road, while the many-coloured pinions streamed lengthily from his hand.
Suddenly he frowned, and, with the wings still dragging, he ran down the path.
In five minutes he came to the place where they had left the ass, but it was no longer there. Far below on the curving ways he saw the donkey moving quietly. Mac Cann and Eileen Ni Cooley were going by each other’s side, and Patsy’s arm was about the woman.
He looked around, and at a little distance saw the girl beside a bush. She was lying on her breast, her face was hidden into the ground, and she was motionless.
He walked to her.
“Mary,” said he, “I have come to say farewell.”
She moved as at a shock. She rose to her feet, and she did not look at him, and this was the first time that these two had talked together.
He bent to her beseechingly:
“I have come to say farewell,” said he.
Again she put her hand into his:
“Say your say,” quoth she, “and go your road,” and with that she did look at him, sternly.
He loosed her hand; his eyes flamed; he stamped the road; he swung his arms aloft gripping the wings, and, with a fierce movement, he ripped them in twain; he put the halves together and tore again, then, with a sweep of his hands, fluttered the shining plumes away and on the wind.
“Now!” quoth he, with a laugh.
“Oh!” she stammered, staring, terrified, incredulous.
“Let you and I go down
