Halligan chuckled. He stood and went to the window. Though he couldn't see out, he gazed up at the light that trickled in.

"You never married, James?"

"Me? No," the man scoffed.

"May I ask why not?"

"I moved around a lot. Never stayed long enough to settle down. I'm not the marrying sort. Not like Dom." "Was there no one you ever loved?"

Halligan shrugged. With his back to Cheverus he said, "I had my share of. . . well, of women. I know what the Church says on that, Father. That it's a sin and all. But it never seemed that way to me. They were lonely and I was lonely, and we offered each other a bit of comfort. That's how I looked on it."

Cheverus nodded without making a comment.

Halligan stared straight ahead at the wall for several seconds. Then he turned around and leaned back against the stones. "There was this one girl," he said after a while.

"Yes."

"Bridie her name was. The daughter of a wealthy man I worked for. A Protestant," he offered, shaking his head. "Can you fancy that? I should have known better, I suppose."

"We can't always understand the ways of the heart."

"That's the God's truth, all right. Though before this I always kept my heart in check."

"What happened? With this ..."

"Bridie," he answered for him. "I came here."

"She didn't want to come with you?"

"Actually, she did," Halligan said, scratching his beard. "It's a long story, Father."

"I have all the time in the world, my son."

"The thing is I don't," Halligan said, with a smirk. He paused for a moment, then added, "I thought this wasn't going to be a confession."

"It's not. We're just talking. As one man to another."

Halligan seemed lost in thought for a moment. "It's just that I never told anybody about her before."

"If you would rather not. . ."

"No, that's not it," Halligan replied, lifting his manacled hands, palms up. Then he let them drop to his thighs. The metal clanged. After a while he said, "You see, Father, I'd got her with child."

"Oh," Cheverus said, unconsciously raising his eyebrows. "And you did not want to marry her?"

"No. I couldn't, you see. Even if I wanted to, how was a fellow like me going to marry a girl like that, Father? Someone from money. A Protestant."

"So you left her and came here?"

"Worse. I lied to her. I told her I would meet her and we would sail together for America, and we'd get married here." He shook his head. "But it was just a lie. Truth is, I was afraid. Of what would happen to me if they caught us. There wasn't much I could do, Father. Besides, she wouldn't have been happy with someone like me."

"How do you know?"

"1 just do. It wouldn't have worked. A girl like that, used to certain things. What could I give her?"

"Did you ever hear from her?"

"No. She wouldn't have known where I'd gone. She didn't even know my real name. I'd lied to her about it when I first met her."

"You never wrote to her?"

"I thought of it. I did. But I didn't know what to say. What was done was done. And like I said, she was better off without me." He chewed on his cracked lower lip for a moment. "Funny though, right before we were arrested I thought of writing to her. Asking her to come over. But it was too late by then."

"So you don't know what happened to her? Or the child."

"No."

"Have you considered writing to her now?"

"Huh/" he said with a bitter laugh. "And just what would I tell her? Sorry, I made a mistake. And oh, by the way, I'm going to hang. I don't think so."

"She would always wonder what became of you. Don't you think she deserves to know the truth?"

"It would sound like I was asking for her pity. I wouldn't want her pity. And anyway, after what I did, she'd probably think I deserved what I got. No, I don't imagine she'd be none too happy to get a letter from me now."

"Do you love her still?"

Halligan angled his head away, toward the bars of his cell. Then he turned back to face Cheverus. He lifted his hands in the air again, held them slightly apart, as if he were holding an invisible but heavy object. He seemed to look at the thing, to turn it over in his hands. Then, whatever he'd had in mind to do with the object, he seemed to change it, and let his hands slowly drop to his lap. "I don't know. Maybe. What difference does it make now?"

"Perhaps she should know of your feelings."

Halligan laughed softly. "I know it was a terrible thing I did. I know that, Father. I tried to fool myself into thinking I had no choice. That what I did was the best for her, too. But at the same time, if I had it to do all over again, I don't know as I'd do any different. I'd probably run again. See, that's the sort of fellow I am, Father."

Cheverus was going to say something, but the man took a deck of cards from his pocket and asked, "Do you play, Father?"

Chapter Fourteen.

Later that morning, Cheverus left the jail and set out to meet Finola Daley as he had promised. He had decided to put on his cassock and to wear his cross. He was a priest, and he would dress as one. He didn't care who knew it. He told himself his life was in God's hands.

The day was already warm, the air rippling. Ocher dust, kicked up from all the traffic, hung thick in the air. It parched the throats of those who had to breathe it. Wagons and carriages cluttered the streets, and crowds of people milled about, all with the air of excitement and anticipation associated with a county fair. Not one but two stages from Boston had just pulled up in front of Pomeroy's Tavern, and passengers were getting off, ladies wearing India mull turbans and parasols held against the heat, men in fine top hats and silk cravats. Along Main, shopkeepers had put their merchandise out on display, and vendors pushing carts hawked their wares. One man sold cider from a barrel while a woman called out, "Pork pies for sale." In the center of town where the bonfire had burned down to a charred black skeleton, a fiddler played music to a small crowd. The whole thing reminded Cheverus of the feast-day processions back in Mayenne.

He walked briskly, trying not to make eye contact. Still, various taunts were hurled at him as he strode through the town.

"Look!" cried a woman seated in an elegant chaise. "A priest." She said it with the startled tone a person would if she had just spotted a camel walking down the street.

A bearded man in the crowd yelled, "Go back where you came from, papist."

"We don't want your kind here," called another.

He kept his head down and continued up Main Street. Marching toward him was a company of militia. He didn't look to see if the red-haired man was among them. When he reached the meetinghouse at the top of the hill, he saw a man standing on the steps, calling out to passersby. The man was dressed in a blue waistcoat, with a red silk stock about his neck and a tall beaver hat. He removed the hat with a dramatic flourish, exposing a bald, sweaty pate. Curious, Cheverus paused to listen for a moment.

"Now for public sale," he yelled in a loud theatrical voice, "a poem about the murder of Marcus Lyon." Then he began to recite part of it: .

Since murder was the dreadful plan Their dearest friends must silent lie For by the law of God and man The man that sheds man's blood shall die.

"Only a penny," he said, waving a piece of paper at Cheverus. Cheverus turned and hurried on.

The last line, he knew, was taken from Genesis: Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed. An eye for an eye. Vengeance. And yet, this wasn't vengeance, he thought. At least not for the murder of a man. It was simply the anger of a people against two outsiders.

He followed the same road he'd taken the previous night, though now in the searing light of day it looked altogether different. He had gotten beyond the town proper and found himself surrounded by rolling pastureland and newly planted fields. The dust was less noticeable here. Sheep and cattle grazed beyond a stone wall. In the distance, greenish-blue hills unfurled like waves. He bore to the right when he came to the fork in the road and continued on. He was sweating profusely in the oppressive heat. The back of his cassock was wet clean through. He paused to take out his handkerchief and dab his face. Once again he caught the stench of the slaughterhouse. Now in the daylight he could see a long, low wooden building of rough-hewn logs. It was set back from the road, with a pen at one end to hold animals. Smoke, carrying the foul odor of rendered fat, floated from a chimney. Occasionally there came the plaintive lowing and bawling of animals. To the west of the shambles, the land fell sharply away to a swampy area surrounded by cattails and sycamores and swamp maples.

As he approached the Clark farmhouse, he saw Finola sitting under a large oak tree out near the road, her bag on the ground beside her. She was occupied with Michael and didn't see him right away. He watched her for a moment. Her head was uncovered, her reddish-blond hair falling loosely about her shoulders. She was playing a game with the child, clapping his hands with hers. Each time the child squealed with laughter, she threw her head back and laughed as well. She looked young and carefree, the sadness gone from her face. He'd never seen her appear so gay and easy. He imagined her sitting under a tree with her husband, eating a picnic lunch, watching their child play, laughing, touching each other, him singing to her. Death a thing as remote, as alien as the moon. He almost didn't want to interrupt this moment, it was so pure, so innocent. He thought of his own mother, recalled her reading to him beneath a willow tree beside the Mayenne River. Someday, Jean, you will perform a great deed in His service. It had taken him three thousand miles and all these many years, but he thought he knew finally what it was God wanted from him: to comfort this woman and her child, to help those two men in jail. That was what He intended for him to do. Everything in his life as a priest, all his training, all his prayers, even that black day fourteen years ago--all of it seemed merely preparation for this.

"Father," she said when she finally spied him standing there. "I didn't see . . ." But she stopped in mid-sentence when she caught sight of his eye. "Goodness. What happened to you?" She stood and went over to him. She fussed over him the way a mother would a child.

"It's nothing really," he said. "I fell."

"Looks terrible, it does. You ought to have a surgeon look at it."

He reached out and stroked the child's face. "Good morning, Michael," he said. The baby stared at him warily, uncertain about this man dressed all in black. In this light, Cheverus saw the father in the child's face, detected Dominic in every lineament of his son.

"Did you see me husband, Father?" she asked eagerly.

"Yes."

"Did he make confession?"

"He did."

"How did he seem to you?"

"At peace. He has placed himself in God's hands."

Finola Daley nodded, her face turning solemn again. "Forgive me, Father, for what I said last night. About God."

"He understands."

"Still, I didn't mean it," she added. "I know it's not His doing."

Cheverus nodded.

"Would you care to pray?" he asked.

"Why, yes, Father. I would."

They knelt together in the shade of the oak and prayed. On the blanket, the baby made soft clucking noises with his tongue. In the distance Cheverus could hear the plaintive bellowing of a steer.

Halligan wondered why he'd told the priest what he had. About getting her pregnant and leaving her. He hadn't meant to. He'd never told another soul. Unlike Dom, he didn't believe a man had the power to forgive another man's sins. So why had he told him then?

The air in the jail was growing warm and stale. Outside, the day was dragging its woolly self toward noon. Cicadas made their sharp whirring sound as if to wake the dead. It was then that Dowd appeared before their cell. "You got a visitor," he stated.

Standing out in the corridor behind him was the familiar figure of Francis Blake.

"Why, Mr. Blake?" Daley exclaimed, excited but also a little apprehensive at his sudden appearance.

"Hello, Dominic," Blake said, as he entered the cell. "And you James." He shook each of their hands in turn.

They made room for him to sit on one of the bunks. Blake took a moment to catch his breath. "Unseasonable weather we're having," he said, offering up a foolish grin. He removed a handkerchief and wiped his face, which was flushed, streaked with sweat and grime from his long ride. He wore high boots and a velvet-trimmed riding coat that was frayed about the sleeves. He rubbed his hands together, as if they were cold, but Halligan saw it was just nervousness with what he'd come to tell them. Finally, he took out his silver flask and took a sip, and then passed it around. Each of them took a tentative draught and handed it back to Blake, who took another one, a long drink.

"I've just come from Boston, gentlemen," he began, picking his words carefully as if each one had a sharp edge that might cut his tongue. He filled his cheeks with air and breathed out slowly. "Our appeal has been denied."

The cell grew very still. Blake glanced from one to the other, confirming with his gaze what he had just said. His blue eyes were filled with a terrible sadness.

Only then did Halligan realize some part of him had still been hoping the appeal would save them, that something would still come between him and the gallows. With this, though, all hope vanished. A part of him seemed to drop away. It was like the feeling he'd had when he was a lad and would jump from the limb of a tree, plunging earthward, his stomach suddenly falling away, everything draining out of him. That's what he felt now, this wild sense of freedom, a feeling beyond fear and despair. Just this strange lightness, as if he'd left his body.

"Which means what?" Daley asked, stubbornly persisting in denying what should have been obvious now.

"Christ, Dom," Halligan snapped. "Means they're gonna top us tomorrow."

Daley looked vacantly at Blake for corroboration. The lawyer pinched his mouth and nodded. "I'm afraid he's right, Dominic."

Daley shook his head. "Jaysus." He swallowed dryly. "So that's that then."

Blake touched the big Irishman's shoulder. "Yes, I'm afraid so. I'm sorry, gentlemen."

"Don't you worry, Mr. Blake," Daley said. "You done all you could." "I just wish I could have done more."

"Oc/i. You done a right fine job. You got nothing to be ashamed of. Ain't that right, Jamy?"

"Yes, Mr. Blake. We'd like to thank you for all your help."

Blake nodded soberly, his fleshy mouth sagging at the corners.

"Is there anything I can do for you? Anything you need?"

"I don't think so, Mr. Blake," Halligan said.

"I am sorry," he said again. "Here," he offered, taking out his silver flask and handing it to them. "You may keep it."

"Why, thank you, Mr. Blake," Daley replied.