"They're quite filthy creatures," the fat woman added, holding the handkerchief close to her nose as if she could smell them even now. "And altogether ignorant."

Finola looked up. She appeared about to say something but Cheverus nudged her gently with his knee.

"I had a servant once from over there," said the woman, waving a gloved hand vaguely in the air. "We paid for her passage and everything. Took her into our house like she was family. And how does she repay our generosity? Silverware started to turn up missing. Why, I would rather hire a Negro. At least they know their place."

"We should never have let them in to begin with," the husband said. "It's only asking for trouble."

"Since Novefnber, I have feared for my very life traveling the roadways," the wife exclaimed. "I've told Elias I wouldn't venture out by night."

"My dear," her husband countered, "Mr. Lyon was killed during broad daylight."

"I don't care," she snorted. "Why even now I don't feel entirely safe. We women are particularly prone to the lustful intentions of ill-mannered immigrants." She looked toward Finola for support as a fellow woman but Finola kept silent.

"Don't you worry, ma'am," said the sailor, lifting his jacket to show a large-bore pistol shoved into the waist of his duck pants. "You're safe now."

"I hear a bunch of them paddies is headed out there to break them out of jail," said the farmer.

"They wouldn't dare," countered the sailor.

"They might. They're headstrong, them Irish."

"Governor Strong," interjected the weasel-faced man, "has the situation under control, I'm quite sure."

The conversation then turned to Governor Strong and politics, the recent gubernatorial race. All this time the woman was staring at Finola and Cheverus.

"What's the child's name?" the woman finally got around to asking.

Cheverus was going to answer but Finola spoke up first. " 'Tis Michael, mum," she said, not trying in the least to disguise her accent. Instead, she glared at the woman, her large eyes full of rage. Cheverus touched her hand to try to quiet her, but she wouldn't be quieted now. "He's Irish, too. And I'll have you know, he's neither filthy nor dumb, and as wee as he is, he has more manners than you'll ever have."

The plump face of the woman grew pale and she replied only by raising her eyebrows.

For a long while after that they rode in awkward silence. Some of them slept or stared out the window, avoiding looking at Finola or Cheverus. The weasel-faced man took out some sort of small account book and seemed to review figures. The sailor opened an oil cloth containing some fried cod and a potato. He offered some to Finola, but she politely refused. The greasy smell of food, however, made Cheverus dizzy with hunger. The purification he had hoped for, the clarity of mind and spirit, had not come. He felt only weak, his belly queasy, his spirit weary and disheartened. He closed his eyes, resting for a moment. He told himself once more that it is through suffering that we know His love, through an acceptance of pain that we enter into His grace. He felt himself on a mission for God. If he could get them to confess to their sin, he could then absolve them. He could save their immortal souls from perdition. Touching the cross beneath his shirt, he prayed silently: O Lord, grant me the strength and the wisdom to lead them from the darkness of their sin, to the light of Your abiding love. Amen.

Late in the afternoon, one of the lead horses threw a shoe, so they had to stop at a livery station along the highway to have it replaced. Grumbling at the inconvenience, the passengers climbed down from the stage and filed into the tavern to wait. The fat woman, appearing as if she would faint, had to be helped along by her thin husband. While Cheverus filled up a bucket with water from the well, Finola and her baby went over and sat in the shade of a large elm that stood along the side of the tavern. He carried the water over to where mother and child waited and joined them. It was a little cooler in the shade, though not much. Somewhere high in the trees a cicada's high-pitched, metallic clamor erupted, piercing the drowsy afternoon stillness. Finola had spread a rough wool blanket on the ground and laid the child on it, and was now in the process of changing his soiled swaddling rags. The acrid smell of urine and excrement fouled the air. The baby had a raw-looking rash between its legs and was howling so hard it almost couldn't catch its breath.

"Musha, love," Finola cooed to the baby, who nonetheless continued to cry.

"Here," Cheverus said, offering her the bucket of water.

"Thank you, Father."

"Is he hungry?"

"No. He's a bad rash though."

She dipped a rag into the water and wiped between her son's legs. The cool water seemed to sooth the baby, for the intensity of his crying abated somewhat. Finola reached into her bag and took out a small vial containing linseed oil and beeswax and spread the ointment over the rash. Then she removed a clean rag and swaddled the baby with it. She picked him up and rocked him. After a while he fell slowly into a fitful sleep.

"The poor thing is tired," she said. "He didn't sleep so good last night."

From the pockets that hung from her skirt she took out an oil cloth and unwrapped it. It contained a small piece of cheese, what remained of a crust of bread, an onion.

"Here, Father," she said, offering him some. He declined. It had only been in the last few hours that he'd begun actually to feel the beneficial effects of his fast--his thoughts had slowed and a certain clarity had begun to form at the edge of his consciousness. He had reached that point where the pain in his stomach receded, the dizziness was fading, and he was left with this calmness of spirit. He didn't want to lose that by giving in to his hunger. Not yet.

"Was it hot like this in France?" she asked, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand.

"It could be. But no, not usually," he replied.

"I been here five years and I still ain't used to it, Father. Nor the winters neither." For some reason, she smiled at him, and he smiled back at her. "Perhaps I'll go back after . . ." she said, her voice trailing off. "I got nothing holding me here now."

"What of your family?"

"They're Dom's relations. Not mine. Oh, they been good to me and all. But you see, Father, I come only because he wanted to. I'd a followed him anywhere."

"How long have you been married, Finola?" he asked.

"Be ten years come July. Would be." She chewed on the bread and took a drink of water. He thought she didn't appear old enough to be married that long. She still looked like a girl. And yet, in the harsh light of the late afternoon her pale, thin face showed tiny creases around her mouth, and sprinkled through her light reddish-blond hair were a few gray hairs.

Glancing at her son, she said, "We had another babe back home, Father."

"Another child?" Cheverus asked.

"Aye. A girl. Eva. The prettiest little thing you ever saw."

"What. . . happened?"

"She caught a fever and died. She was just three."

He had been her priest all these years and had not known that. In fact, he knew so little about her or her husband. About any of his flock. In the ways that really mattered. Back in France, he'd known everything about his communicants. The small, plain details of their lives. That old Madame Leroux, for instance, had that limp of hers because of a fall from a horse seventy years before. Or that the miller, Etienne Desauliers, had broken through the ice of the Mayenne River one winter morning when he was a boy and had nearly drowned.

"I didn't know, Finola," he offered. "I'm so sorry."

"I mourned her passing for a long time. Every day I went to the church and lit a candle and said a prayer for her soul. I thought I'd never get over me loss, Father."

"It must have been difficult," he tried to comfort.

She nodded, staring out across the dusty road in front of the tavern. The heat made the light wavy, rippling like water in a wind. In her eyes, he saw the wavering reflection, the still, dull leaves of the elm, the golden light of the afternoon.

"I can't imagine life without Dominic," she said. She said it simply, without emotion. A fact that was too awful to contemplate fully.

"Of course," he replied softly. "Tell me about him."

"What do you mean, Father?

"What sort of man he was." Then he caught his error and tried to undo it. "What sort of man he is, I mean."

She looked at him, then glanced down at the child in her arms. "Oh," she said, "Dom's a good man. Gentle. Kind. A good father, too." She thought for a moment. Then she smiled, inwardly at first, but quickly her whole face brightened like a young girl's. "And he always liked to sing."

"He liked to sing?"

"Aye. Ever since I knew him. He had a sweet voice. Like a songbird. I fell in love with him because of his voice."

Cheverus smiled, gazing down at her son.

The sun was just setting over the mountains to the west when they reached the ferry which would take them across the Connecticut River. From his seat in the coach, Cheverus found himself staring out at the dark-skinned, oily-looking water. A man was spearing eels from a flat-bottom punt, while an osprey did its own hunting, skimming low over the water, one talon poised to strike. A foul, pervasive smell, of dead fish and muddy water, polluted the evening air. He thought, almost inevitably it seemed, of Dante, of the river Acheron and the souls of the damned being ferried across. Was he, like Virgil, only visiting, he wondered. Or was he one of the lost souls?

They arrived finally in Northampton well past nine. Just outside of town they were stopped by a uniformed sentry who held a lantern aloft and looked into the coach. Only after asking a few questions did he allow them to pass on. The coach stopped in the center of town. The priest had been this far west in the state only twice before. A French Catholic couple from Quebec used to live just north of here. He had come out to marry them and later to baptize their baby. But they had felt isolated, with no other Catholics for miles and no priest to say Mass, so they had eventually moved back up to Quebec. Cheverus stepped off the stage, his legs unsteady and weak from the long ride. He helped Finola and the baby down.

Cheverus went around to the back of the coach, where the driver was handing down the passengers' trunks and bags. As he glanced along the town's Main Street, he was surprised to see all the people out at this hour. Yet he should have known. Hangings were quite popular, attracting people like maggots to a dead dog. When they had one on Boston Common, spectators would line the way from the prison to get a glimpse of the condemned riding along on the cart, sitting on his own coffin, the noose already draped around his neck like a thin cravat. Thousands more would gather on the Common to watch.

Now, two days before the execution, they had flocked to this small western Massachusetts town. They had come on horseback and on foot, by wagon and stage. They wandered the darkened streets in riotous bands. One man was selling things from a cart he had set up where two streets came together. He peddled trinkets and ribbons and scarves. Nearby someone had set up a Punch-and-Judy show and was entertaining a group who had gathered around it. Two puppets had ropes around their necks while a third puppet wearing a uniform beat them with a stick. The spectators laughed heartily. Groups of boys ran wildly about, some carrying lanterns, others holding pine-pitch torches. They were calling out, chasing each other, playing games. One group was throwing stones at something that hung from the limb of a great elm tree on Main Street. When Cheverus looked more closely, he saw it was a straw man with a crudely painted sign dangling from its neck: irish murderers, the sign read. The boys were pelting the effigy with rocks, laughing uproariously when someone hit the figure and knocked some straw stuffing from its bulging chest.

A hundred yards to the west, in the center of the street, a large bonfire raged, and a crowd of several hundred people had congregated around it. They appeared to be listening to a man speak. The man, dressed all in black, stood on the bed of a wagon. The fire behind him outlined his form in silhouette, black against the shooting orange flames. From this distance, Cheverus couldn't make out what he was saying, but every once in a while there would be this thunderous applause and those in attendance would call out their support for whatever it was the man was saying. Nearby, a company of uniformed militiamen stood looking on, their muskets at ease beside them.

Finola was standing in the street, looking west toward the crowd gathered around the fire. "Are they all here for it?"

He nodded. "We should try to find lodging," he said. "It's past nine o'clock."

Cheverus and Finola went into the first inn that presented itself. The landlord, a heavy, swollen-faced man, told them he had no rooms. He suggested they try Pomeroy's Tavern a little farther west on Main. So they walked there. They found Pomeroy's to be a two-story inn with an enclosed courtyard in the English style. The innkeeper, an old man named Asahel Pomeroy, greeted them in the entryway. Behind him was a public room from which flowed the din of voices and raucous laughter. Pomeroy had the somnolent yellow eyes of a cat sunning itself.

"You here to see the Irishmen swing?" he asked indifferently.

"We would like two rooms," Cheverus replied.

"Got but one and that's in the attic."

"You have nothing else?"

"No. With everyone here for the hanging, you won't find another room in town," he said confidently. "The one in the attic's big enough to sleep the three of you. And the bed doesn't have lice."

Finola glanced at Cheverus. She looked exhausted, as did the baby, asleep in her arms.

"All right," Cheverus said. "I'll take it."

"How long will you be staying?" he asked, staring curiously at Finola now with those sleepy yellow eyes of his.

"A few nights."

"Dollar a night," he said.

Cheverus knew what he was charging was outrageous. But they had no choice.

"Fine."

"In advance," the man said, his eyes fixed on Finola. "Meals and drink is separate. Have I seen you somewhere abouts?" he asked Finola.

She shook her head.

"You look awful familiar. You from around these parts?"

She looked to Cheverus. "We're from Boston," he explained.

"I could swear I seen you before." He rubbed his unshaven chin pensively. "Were you at the trial?"

She shook her head again and turned partially away, drawing her shawl close about her face.

Cheverus took out his purse, hoping to pay the man before he realized where he'd seen her. He wanted at least to see to it that Finola and her child had a room for the night. He would figure out something for himself.

"Just a minute," the man said, his eyes lighting up with recognition. "I did see you at the trial."

"No," she said. "You're mistaken."

"Now I remember. You're that fellow's wife!" he said, pointing at her. "The Irishman's. I remember you had the child with you. You sat in the back of the court."

"May I pay you for the room?" Cheverus tried to interrupt.

"And who are you?" he asked, turning to stare at him.

"I'm ... a priest."

"A priest!" he exclaimed. "Good Lord! What are you doing out here?"

"I have come to minister to the condemned."

The man stared suspiciously at them. "You wait here. I'll be right back."

He headed back into the taproom.

"Maybe we ought to go," Finola whispered. "I don't want to cause you any trouble."

"You and the baby need a place to stay."

"We could sleep under a tree. It's warm out. We'll be fine."

"No."

Pomeroy returned shortly, this time bringing a woman with him. She was small and shriveled, with a humped back and greasy, disheveled white hair. Cheverus couldn't tell whether it was the man's wife or mother.

"We don't let rooms to papists," she snapped.

"But, madame," Cheverus pleaded, "we've had a long journey. Think of the poor child."

"That's none of my concern. I couldn't hardly sleep thinking there was a papist under the same roof. Besides, we have no rooms."

"What about the one in the attic?" asked Cheverus, glancing at her husband.

"I said, 'we've no rooms,'" the women declared adamantly.

So they left. Though she said she could manage, Cheverus took her haversack and placed it over his shoulder, leaving his hands free to lug his heavy trunk. They headed along Main Street. The night had cooled considerably from the stifling heat of the day. Finola put her shawl over her head, wrapping it about the baby. People were milling about, shouting, laughing. They had to pass by the crowd in the center of the street. Standing on the wagon, the man dressed in black continued to address the crowd. They were now close enough to make out some of what he was saying: "We see the evil attending a continual influx of vicious and polluted foreigners into this country," he cried. Those listening yelled out with "yea" and "huzzah." "Many of the outrages we suffer proceed from this source. Foreigners break into our houses, in the unsuspecting hours of sleep. They set fire to our large cities and towns for the sake of plunder. They rob and commit murder on our highways." The crowd yelled their encouragement.