The lawyer called for the turnkey then. While he was waiting, he shook their hands and said, "God be with you, gentlemen." He headed out the door, then stopped in the corridor and turned, seemed about to say something else, but finally he decided against it and left without another word.

When he was gone, Daley said, "He was a good skin."

"That he was," replied Halligan.

Daley sat musing for a moment. "Tomorrow, I want you to read that letter we wrote, Jamy boy."

"Aye," he said indifferently.

"No, I mean it. When we're standing up there on the gallows, I want you to read it. I want everybody to hear we're innocent."

"I will."

Daley glanced over at him. "Jamy?"

"Yes?"

"I just want you to know something," he said. "I'm right proud to call you me friend."

"Same goes for me, Dom."

"There's not a lad anywhere I'd rather have with me when we climb those steps tomorrow."

"I suppose I should thank you for that," he said with a smirk.

Daley returned the smile. "Do ye think we'll do all right tomorrow?"

"We'll do just fine."

"Funny, but I niver reckoned I'd go like this," Daley explained.

"Nor I."

"How did you think you'd die?"

"I dunno. I guess I never really pictured it."

Daley rubbed his face. "I thought I'd be an old man dying in me bed with a bunch of old women keening around me. And the men smoking their pipes and drinking their whiskey and telling tales about me."

"They'll talk about us, all right."

"Aye. That they will."

Daley fell silent. After a while he started to sing softly.

On the banks of the Roses My love and I sat down And I took out my violin To play my love a tune . . .

Halligan closed his eyes. The song came to him as if from very far away. So it was final now, he thought. Well, so be it. At least there was no more pretending or hoping. That was all behind him. Now it was just the waiting. He felt so tired suddenly. If he let himself, he could have fallen sound asleep. Yet what was the point in sleeping? Now, with so little time left? With Blake's news, something had happened to him. A change of heart. Maybe it was the stone-hard irrefutability of death. Or maybe it was his talk with the priest. He couldn't say exactly. He no longer wanted to make his mind go blank, no longer wanted to forget, to avoid even what was unpleasant or painful. He wanted to use whatever little time remained to him. To be aware of each hour, each minute, each second. To savor what was left to him--the beating of his heart, the thoughts that swirled in his brain, even the fear that grew in his belly. Even that was precious now.

He wondered what she was doing. Right then. At that very moment. Was she riding her white charger Tristan, galloping along the high green hills overlooking the ocean, the salt breeze in her face, her raven hair sweeping back behind her? Or was she with her child, playing with him, taking the lad for a walk. He tried to imagine too what the boy would look like. It was always a boy he pictured, whenever he pictured the child. His child. Near to four years old, he'd be. Dark hair and those serious eyes of Bridie's. A good-looking lad, he had to be. What would she have called him? Certainly not James. No, not that. He tried to imagine the boy doing something, moving about, laughing. What his voice would sound like. But he couldn't. He saw just a still image of him, like a small likeness in a locket. Just like that single image he had of his mother. In this one, a dark-haired lad was standing before the Big House, looking down the long stone drive as if waiting for something. He wondered, too. what she would tell their son when he was old enough to understand. What would she say to the boy about his father? Would she tell him anything at all? Would she make up some lie to protect him? To protect herself? Or would she tell him that his father was a man she had once made the mistake of loving a long time ago, a bad man, someone who had lied to her and left them? Or would she tell the child how much his father had loved his mother and would have loved him, too, had he the chance? After all, a child should know that his father loved him.

The lines of Daley's song echoed in his head.

On the banks of the Roses My love and I sat down .

He thought of that place in the woods beside the stream where Bridie had led him once on that hot summer's day. The stunning cold of the water, the dappled light through the treetops. The touch and smell and taste of Bridie.

Remember this, she had said. Remember us, Jamy.

I will.

Daley stopped singing, glanced over at him. "You all right, Jamy boy?"

"What?" he replied. "Oh. Just thinking."

He could still feel the frigid water on his skin, the cool sweetness of Bridie's mouth on his.

Ch everus returned to the jailhouse with Finola and the child. Before letting them in, one of the guards, a small man with pale pinkish eyes and a pronounced stutter, searched Finola's bag. He even checked the blanket she had wrapped around the baby. The child woke at this and began to cry.

"It's all right, love," Finola said, cooing softly to him. "We're gonna see your da."

When the guard made as if to search Finola's person, Cheverus objected. "Is that really necessary?"

"She might be c-c-carrying a weapon, sir," the guard said.

"I'll vouch for her."

"I have my orders."

"The attorney general is a personal friend of mine," he lied. "You can be assured he shall hear of this."

The man considered this for a moment. Finally, he shook his head and exclaimed, "Very well then. B-b-but we'll keep a sharp eye on you."

Dowd led them into the empty cell. "You can wait here, ma'am," he said obligingly.

"Thank you," Finola replied.

"May we have a candle, Mr. Dowd?" Cheverus asked. "Yes, and a chair if you wouldn't mind."

"Certainly."

After putting on the manacles, the guards escorted Daley out of the prisoners' cell and down the corridor to where Cheverus and Daley's wife and son waited.

"Dominic!" Finola cried. She turned to Cheverus and asked if he'd hold the child, which he did. Then the woman threw her arms around her husband's neck and kissed him hard on the mouth, her body pressing into his, not embarrassed in the least to do so in front of a priest or the pair of guards that stood leering out in the corridor. Cheverus had forgotten the disparity in their sizes. Finola barely came to the middle of her husband's chest. It had seemed so long ago that he had last seen them together: probably for the baby's christening last fall. To hug her in return, Daley had to lift his manacled hands over her head. He did this carefully so as not to hit her with the heavy iron chains, and then, effortlessly, gently, as if he were handling a fragile ornament he feared breaking, he lifted her off the ground. They stood like that for several seconds, content just to hold each other. Cheverus, who stood cradling the child, watched them silently. The scene touched him deeply. In fact he was more moved by the sight of the two than he had been by anything in a long, long time. There was a rare sacredness about their union. The sort he felt when he broke the host and ate of it.

Tve so missed you, Dom," she said after a while.

Daley set her down. He sucked in his mouth and wagged his shaggy head from side to side.

"What's the matter, love?" she asked.

"You should not of come," he replied.

"Why?" she asked, searching his eyes.

"You just shouldn't of is all."

"But I thought you'd want me here."

He shook his head again. Cheverus saw that he was struggling to hold his emotions in check. His eyes were already moist, glassy, focused on some distant thing no one else there could hope to see. The flesh between his brows was pinched, his jaws clenched tight.

"I did. I mean, I do. I wanted to see you and Michael more than anything in the world. It's just... I didn't want you to see me like this."

"Dominic, please. It's all right."

"No. I wanted you to remember me as I was. Not. . ." He held his arms apart, as wide as the manacles would allow him, in a gesture of supplication. He looked down at himself, this forlorn expression on his long unshaven face. "Like this."

"I had to come," Finola pleaded. "I couldn't stay away. Besides, it's only right you saw your son."

He swallowed with difficulty and glanced down at the baby in Cheverus's arms.

"Mr. Blake come," he explained, meeting Finola's gaze.

"What did he say?" she asked eagerly.

"Our appeal. . ." but his voice broke, and everything he'd been trying so hard to hold in spilled out in great heaving sobs. "Ah, Lord," he cried. His knees buckled and Finola had to help him sit down on the bunk. She sat beside him and held his large head against her breast as his sobs convulsed his body.

"There, there," she comforted, rocking him. " 'Tis all right, love."

When he'd quieted down a little, he managed to say, "Would you look at me now. Cryin' like a wee babe." "Musha, Dom. It's all right."

"I love you more than anything, Finola," he said.

"And I you."

"Promise me you won't come tomorrow. I don't want you there. I don't want you to see me like that."

She nodded resignedly. As she stroked his head, she gazed over at Cheverus and her son. Help him, he remembered her telling him the night before, which seemed now like ages ago. After a while Dominic's sobs ceased altogether, and he wiped his eyes on the back of his hand. He took a deep breath and gazed upon his son.

"He's gettin' so big, ain't he now, Father?" Daley said.

"Yes, he is. Here, Dominic," Cheverus said, handing the baby over to him. The child stared uncertainly at the bearded stranger and began to fuss, looking for the familiar face of his mother.

"Why lookit that. The little fellow's scared of me."

"It's all so strange to him," Finola explained.

Dominic rocked him against his chest. He sang softly to Michael and the child eventually quieted down.

"More and . More he favors you," Daley said to his wife.

"No. Everyone says he's the spitting image of you."

"Do you think so?"

"Aye. He's got your chin."

"Begob. The poor lad," he said, glancing at Cheverus and smiling.

Cheverus smiled back. They spoke for a while, of Daley's mother, of how the trees were in bloom along Hanover Street in Boston, and how she was making a quilt for Michael's bed, that is, when he was big enough to sleep alone. They spoke of home, of Ireland, their voices full of longing and regret. Cheverus waited patiently. He thought how she had told him she might go back home after this was over. Back to where her other child was buried. They chatted pleasantly for some time, and then, as if suddenly the reason for their being there dawned on them, they both fell silent and looked over at him.

"Would you like to receive communion now?"

Daley looked at his wife. "Please, Father. We would."

From his trunk in the corner of the cell, he took out his surplice and drew it on over his cassock. Then he put the stole about his neck. Over the single chair in the cell, he draped a white altar cloth he had brought for the occasion. Next he lit two candles, poured water into a small bowl to wash his hands, and placed the pyx with the sacrament on the makeshift altar. Daley and Finola sat there watching him. The child in her arms began to squirm and whimper softly. She bounced him and cooed to him, but his crying escalated.

"I think he's hungry, Father," Finola offered apologetically.

"Go ahead and feed him," Cheverus said. "I shall wait."

While she nursed the child, Cheverus knelt before the sacrament and prayed. O Heavenly Father, make me Thy instrument of deliverance. After Finola had finished feeding him, Cheverus began the sacramental prayer.

"Kneel," he intoned.

They did.

"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti," he began, making the sign of the cross. As Cheverus repeated the familiar words he had uttered so many times before, they felt different in his mouth now, strange and new and thrilling, as if he'd never before said them, as if he'd never entered into the holy mystery before that moment. He felt a pressure building within him, something pure and consecrated well up in his breast, surge into his throat, and finally make itself felt behind his eyes. The pressure pushed out the corners of his eyes, and tears ran silently down his cheeks, falling onto his surplice. It was a sensation he used to have when celebrating the Mass, but which he hadn't felt in a very long time. A sanctified feeling, one of great humility and profound holiness. It wasn't as if he were simply uttering words, but doing nothing less than speaking to God Himself. The terrible silence that had surrounded and isolated him for so long seemed to vanish. He could almost feel the warm breath of God on his face, just as he once had. As he said "Panem coelestem accipiam, et nomen Domini invocabo ," he was reminded of the first Mass he had ever said, on that long-ago Christmas after his ordination, at the midnight service in the great cathedral in Mayenne. When he had said the words of the Mass then, looking up at the figure of Christ before him, he had felt the comforting spirit of his mother beside him, just as she had been when they would kneel together in prayer. Now as he said, "Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis " he did feel Gods forgiveness wash over him like cool, clear water. He felt anointed, cleansed. Then he held the host before him and said, "Corpus Domini nostrijesu Christi custodiat animam meam in vitam aeternam. Amen " He placed it on the tongue of Daley, and then he did the same for Finola, who couldn't fold her hands in prayer because she held the baby. Finally, he blessed them.

When he had done all this, they stood and, as if he had just performed the sacrament of marriage instead of offering them communion, they kissed one another gently on the lips. They too were crying, softly, silently. He felt the love between them, a thing powerful and sacred, something consecrated by God Himself. And what he felt now for Finola Daley was pure and chaste, as a brother loves a sister. Nothing more. He would watch over her and help her, and see to it that their son was educated and provided for. He would remain here to see that this was done. Yes, he would.

"Dominic," Cheverus said to him. "I wish I could tell you why this terrible thing has happened. But I cannot. God's ways are beyond our capacity to understand. Yet He loves you, my son. Of that I am certain. And I am equally certain that this time tomorrow you shall be sitting on the right hand. Of the Lord. So do not fear death. It is not the end."

"I know, Father," he said, wiping his eyes and glancing at his wife.

Cheverus then called to Dowd and asked if he would permit the couple some time alone together. The turnkey said they could have a few minutes. Cheverus left them and made his way to the other cell, where he found Halligan sitting with his back to the wall, crosslegged. He was playing a game of solitaire, the cards spread out on his bunk.

"Do you mind some company, James?" he asked.

"Please, Father. Come in," Halligan said. "Now you look like a priest."

Cheverus took a seat on the bunk opposite him. Halligan appeared different somehow. Something about his eyes. They looked lighter, a pale watery blue, the color having faded from them. His shoulders sagged, and there was about him the look of a man having just come to the end of a long and tiresome journey.