"I don't think so," Daley said.

"Some paper and ink, sir, if you don't mind," Halligan requested.

When he returned, Dowd said, "Here you be."

"Thank you, Mr. Dowd," Halligan said.

"You've been decent fellows. Good luck and God be with you."

"Thanks for everything you done, sir," Daley said.

The man nodded and left.

After they had eaten, the guards placed the manacles on them and led them out. As they passed the cell where the priest had stayed, they saw it was empty. Daley glanced at Halligan, frowning. They were escorted to the paddock out behind the jail where they were allowed to wash at the water trough. A company of militia surrounded them. They were given soap and even permitted a razor to shave their long scraggly beards. The priest must have seen to that, Halligan thought. Daley hummed as he shaved, an odd nervous rattle in his throat. His long white limbs hung thin and slack from disuse. Without his beard Daley looked funny, big jawed, with that sharp hatchet face of his. Halligan felt a little strange without his own. Lighter. Almost airy. But also somehow naked, as if a mask had been removed from his face.

"Where do you think he's off to?" Daley asked.

Halligan knew he meant the priest. "Dunno."

Well before dawn, Cheverus had awoken. In the fine-grained darkness he looked slowly about himself, momentarily confused. Where was he?

Had he awoken in his parents' house back in Mayenne, were the snores he heard those of his brother Louis? Or was it his narrow room at the seminary? He lay in bed for some time, letting his thoughts settle. The dream hovered close by, a fly buzzing near his ear. In his mind's eye, he recalled the smells and sights and sounds of it, things grown so familiar to him. And yet, something about this one had been different. This time the clerics were not praying quietly. They were not praying at all. In this dream, as he had walked about the garden, he saw them lying there, so still, their cassocks and robes covered with gore, their severed limbs scattered about like so many leaves, their martyrs' blood already turning black and drawing flies in the heat. In this dream, he heard a low moan as of one near death. He followed the noise and found one priest still alive. It was, he recognized even in the dream, his friend, Father Landry. He lay mortally wounded, the light in his eyes fading. Cheverus knelt and cradled the dying priest's bloody head. Landry looked up at him and whispered, "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned." Yet when Cheverus tried to say the words of absolution, nothing came out of his mouth.

He rose in the darkness and prayed: Give me courage, O Lord. Help me this day to lead them to Your everlasting glory. Even the one who doesn't believe. He is most in need of my help. Then he dressed and left the cell.

He wandered about the town, thinking, praying, meditating. The morning was cool and the air still sweet with night smells. Few were out and about yet. A young girl lugging two pails of milk suspended from a yoke over her slight shoulders headed toward Main Street. A man carrying a lantern and a fishing pole walked down toward the river. Somewhere a calf made a deep bawling sound and a dog barked from an alley. Cheverus thought of the dream again, of the holy martyrs lying dead in the garden. He thought of the fact that he had not fled this time, that he had stayed behind to help. But he also thought that he had not been able to give his dying friend absolution. Why, he wondered. Why couldn't he bless him?

He continued to walk up and down the streets of the small town. As his head cleared, he considered what he would say for a sermon this day. Finally he decided on the First Epistle of John: Whosoever hateth his brother is a murderer, and ye know that no murderer hath eternal life abiding in him. And then he thought of the next verse, which had nothing to do with hatred and murder, everything to do with love and loyalty: Hereby perceive we the love of God, because he laid down his life for us: and we ought to lay down our lives for the brethren. Yes, he thought: to lay down our lives for our brothers. He would speak of the bitter fruit of hatred. Of how it tore men apart and kept them from loving their brothers as God intended. But more importantly, he would speak of the nature of divine love. How He loved us all, saint and sinner alike.

Wkhout the whiskers, Jamy boy, you're not half-bad lookin'," Daley said, with a lopsided smile. "And how's about me?"

"You're still as homely as a pig's arse," Halligan said.

Daley feigned anger. "I ought to crack yer head, I should." Instead he struck him playfully on the shoulder.

As Halligan scrubbed himself, he glanced up at the soft blue sky, the few clouds scudding brilliantly toward the river. The sun blazed a reddish gold color. He thought of that old ditty: Red sky at night, sailors delight; red sky in morning, sailors take warning. The ridge of mountains was a lazy, greenish-blue line, the trees fully leafed out, solid, impenetrable. Below, by the river, the newly planted fields and pastures glistened still with dew. It was all so lovely, so luscious and full and ripe, that the breath was pulled from his lungs as if by an invisible hand. Wasn't that the way of it though, he thought. Wasn't that always the way, a fellow values only what he can no longer have? He could feel his heart beating, chugging fiercely away in his chest. He bent over the trough and dunked his head beneath the water. He held it there for a while. Things slowed down. It was quiet suddenly. The only noise the distant beat of his heart. The world and his fate seemed momentarily to fade away. He thought of that time in the yard of the Maguire place, while he stood at the water trough on that frigid winter's day, what seemed like a lifetime ago now. The cold, stinging water on his skin. He could remember looking up, seeing her there in the window, framed almost, like a painting of some highborn lady. Bridie, he whispered into the water, bubbles floating up around his face. Bridie. Did he love her even then, he wondered. Could a person fall in love just like that, with one look? And was love a thing enduring, lasting beyond sight and touch, beyond time? Beyond the grave even?

He felt something prod him in the small of the back. It was the hard butt of a musket. "Just wonderin' what you're doing," said one of the guards, a stocky man.

After a while they were taken back inside the jail. Daley picked up his rosary, and Halligan slipped the two pieces of paper into his shirt. They were then brought to the priest's cell, where he was now kneeling in prayer. He rose when he saw them. He was dressed in the white surplice and stole. Around his neck hung the large silver cross.

"Good morning," he said, his face pale except for the bruise below his eye. It was a deep purplish-black, like a birthmark. He seemed oddly calm and self-possessed, Halligan thought.

"Good morning, Father," Daley replied. "I was wonderin' where you went."

"Just out for some air. Good morning, James."

"And you, Father," offered Halligan.

The priest made the sign of the cross before Daley, and then he turned to Halligan. Cheverus didn't insist, it was more just a courtesy. For his part, Halligan didn't want to show him disrespect, not in front of the guards. So Halligan said, "Please, Father." What did it matter, after all? What did any of it matter anymore? Just some words.

Smiling benevolently, the priest blessed him as well. Then Cheverus knelt, and Daley followed suit. Halligan didn't have much choice but to do the same. He folded his hands. It felt odd, doing that. He hadn't prayed in a very long time. In Latin, the priest said an Our Father and a Hail Mary. Then, in English, he said, "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death." Daley, holding his rosary, joined in, and they said the prayer over and over again, until the words lost their individual meaning and were like the whirring of insects or the rushing sound of water down a mountain stream. They stayed like that for a long time, kneeling in prayer. Halligan remained silent, though he moved his lips. He was reminded of his days with the Franciscans, praying during matins. The sound of the other orphans, the smell of incense, Father Padraig's gruff voice. He recalled how, when he was just a boy, he used to say prayers for his mother's soul.

After a while he heard movement behind him in the corridor, and turned to see the tall sheriff standing there. "It is time," Mattoon said, his voice subdued, in it neither kindness nor cruelty, just the tone of duty.

They stood.

"Are you ready, my sons?" Cheverus asked them.

They both nodded.

The guards led them out into the street. Though a large crowd had turned out for the trial, it was nothing compared to this. Halligan was amazed by the number of people he saw. They lined each side of the street a dozen deep, all the way up to Main. As soon as someone spotted the pair coming out of the jail, this great roar went forth from the crowd, like a gigantic belly rumbling out of hunger. People stirred and jockeyed to get a better look. They stood on tiptoe and craned their necks. A number had thought to bring crates or milking stools to stand on.

"Jaysus," Daley exclaimed in an undertone. "Would ye look at 'em all, Jamy boy."

"Bloody vultures," Halligan cursed.

Sheriff Mattoon, accompanied by several aides in full parade uniform, sat on horseback near the front of the entourage. The sheriff rode his large roan, the animal bobbing its head and prancing sideways nervously, snuffling and whinnying. Beside him was the young blond captain, who kept turning in his saddle to look anxiously at something toward the rear. This group was followed by a detachment of regular military, the Second Massachusetts Light Artillery. In addition to some twenty soldiers there were a horse-drawn six-pounder and a limber containing a caisson of ammunition, the cannon more for show than anything else. Next came the militia guards who took up positions in double rows on either side of the prisoners, muskets shouldered with bayonets already fixed. Bringing up the rear was a wagon in which two men sat, neither dressed in military uniform. Father Cheverus got in line in front of the prisoners. He held his silver cross in the air before him as if today were a feast day and this merely a procession through town. As Halligan stood there in the heat, the sweat trickling down between his shoulder blades, he happened to glance back at the wagon. In the bed he noticed a pair of narrow boxes made of gleaming, fresh-cut wood. Coffins. What need had they for coffins, he wondered. Perhaps they were to be buried after all. Maybe the priest had worked that out, like with the razors. Not that it mattered so much to him. Dead was dead. Still, he supposed it would be better to lie quietly in the ground than have his bones scattered about.

The blond captain pulled out his gleaming saber and gave the order to move forward. As soon as they started, Halligan heard an odd rapping noise. A drumbeat, a low, somber rhythm, almost like the heartbeat of a sleeping man: doont, doont, da-doont. A single militiaman at the very front of the procession banged on a drum. The noise vibrated in the air, raising the hair on the back of Halligan's neck. He knew what it was. He'd heard it back home. The British loved to play it before they topped some Irishman: the Death March.

As the retinue moved up the street, Halligan noticed that the large crowd this morning was strangely subdued. The spectators spoke, if at all, in hushed whispers which rose collectively like a breath. No one called out insults or threats as had happened for the trial. No one threw anything or in any way tried to impede the progress of the procession. There was about the crowd a formal, even reverential quality. It might have been the lulling, funereal sounds of the drummer or the increased military presence. It might have been simply the strange sight of the priest, dressed in his surplice and stole, holding the cross in the air before him. Few had probably seen a priest before.

Halligan felt the heat on the crown of his head. He would like to have had a hat. The sweat gathered at his hairline and rolled down his face. Along the way he spotted a watering trough, and wished he could have a drink. He licked his dry lips and swallowed. When the procession reached the meetinghouse at the top of the hill, it came to a sudden halt. Cheverus went on ahead. For two or three minutes they just waited there, motionless, wilting in the heat. Then Halligan saw what the matter was. The tall minister, Solomon Williams, stood blocking the doorway of the church, Bible in hand. He was conversing with Sheriff Mattoon and Cheverus. The pink-faced preacher, dressed all in black, towered over the tiny priest. He spoke heatedly, his face turning a deeper red, gesticulating with his hands, then pointing at the two Irishmen. At first the crowd's low rumbling noise drowned them out, but then things slowly quieted so that he was able to hear the confrontation between the two men of God.

"I have prepared their funeral sermon," the pastor said sternly to Father Cheverus.

"With all due respect," the priest countered, "I have come here today by their express wishes."

"But this is my church. Do you understand?"

"This is God's church, sir," Cheverus replied calmly but forcefully. He turned to look at them, then back at Williams. "The will of the dying is sacred. They have desired to have no one but myself, and I alone shall speak."

The minister remained standing there for another moment or two, his dark brows furrowed, his pinkish face burning with outrage that he would be challenged so openly, in his own town, his own church, by, of all people, a papist. Finally, though, he must have realized the little priest was not about to back down, for he threw his hands in the air and stepped out of the way so that they could pass into the church.

A s Cheverus stood in the pulpit of the Protestant meetinghouse, he felt more nervous than he had been even for his first Mass. It was an enormous crowd, larger than he had ever spoken to before. People stood in the aisles and along the back. They had taken out the windows so those assembled in the street could hear what he said. Faces pressed in at every opening. Well-dressed men of means had seats up toward the front, and women sat beside them in their finery, fanning themselves. Toward his right he spied Finola Daley. She was holding her child in her arms. Her face was blanched, colorless, her large eyes shiny and lustrous as mother-of-pearl. Up front, seated on a pair of low stools set apart from the rest of the congregation, were the two Irishmen. The sheriff had, and only at Cheverus's insistence, removed their manacles, but he stood close by. Heads lowered, the condemned looked like the pathetic outcasts they were.

Cheverus took a deep breath, trying to quiet his nerves. His hands trembled, his heart fluttered wildly in his chest. Finally he cleared his throat. The noisy din of the crowd slowly subsided, but he waited a moment or two until there was complete silence before beginning.

"Orators," he said, his voice thin and quavering at first, "are usually flattered by having a numerous audience. But I am ashamed of the one now before me!"

An outraged sigh rose from the crowd. Some of the men frowned indignantly, a few muttering contemptuously under their breaths, while others looked on perplexed, waiting. One man could be heard to say, "Get on with it, priest."

Cheverus again reminded himself of Father Matignon s warning that he be careful, that he not do anything that could provoke sentiment against the Church, but he would speak his heart. Let them be angry. He no longer cared. He would tell the truth this day.

"Are there men," he continued, "to whom the death of their fellow beings is a spectacle of pleasure, an object of curiosity?" Then, staring at one finely dressed older woman on his left, he said, "But especially you women. What has induced you to come to this place? Is it to experience the painful emotions which this scene ought to inspire in every feeling heart? No," he said with disdain. "It is to behold the prisoners' anguish. To look upon it with tearless, eager, and longing eyes. I blush for you. Your eyes are full of murder!" He continued in this vein. A few of the women gave the priest haughty, defiant looks, but many seemed embarrassed. "If the suffering of others affords you pleasure, and the death of a man is entertainment for your curiosity, then I can no longer believe in your virtue." He glanced out over the gathering, his searing gaze falling on first one woman and then another and another. Each one in turn lowered her eyes.

"You forget your sex," Cheverus went on. "You are a dishonor and reproach to it."

He paused then, allowing the weight of his words to settle over the crowd. There was a shuffling of feet, at first only a few, then a few more, then dozens of women stood and made their way out of the church, their heads lowered in shame. Soon almost all got up and left, leaving behind only a handful of women, too brave or frightened or stubborn to leave.

Cheverus continued his sermon. He quoted the passage from John. He spoke of hatred, that of man for his brother. How it was a form of murder, worse in fact than an actual murder. Why? Because it denied God's love. Because it killed what God had intended for children: to love one's brother.

Finally, after he had spoken for a long time, he looked down at the two Irishmen seated before him.

"We must love and not hate our brothers." Then making eye contact with Halligan, he added, "We must forgive in order to be forgiven. And we must have the courage to ask for forgiveness."

When the priest had finished his sermon, the sheriff stepped forward and placed the irons back on the prisoners and led them outside into the street. It was early afternoon now, and the heat sat over everything like a heavy yellow stone, oppressive, palpable. Halligan was more thirsty than ever. He recalled the Irish words for "I'm thirsty" that Brother Padraig had taught him: Ta tart orm.

"Dominic," a woman's voice called. It was Finola Daley. She was standing just outside of the church, the baby in her arms. She tried to press forward to see her husband, but the guards at first kept her back. With a nod from the sheriff, she was permitted to go to him.

"Oh, Dominic," she said, hugging him with one arm as she held the baby with the other.

"I told you not to come."

"I know. But I had to see you one more time, love. I had to."

He nodded, then bent and leaned his head on her shoulder. She rubbed his back as tears fell from her cheeks. So softly that only Halligan could hear it, he said, "I love you."

"And I love you," she replied.

Then he kissed his son on the top of the head. "Goodbye, Michael. You'll tell him the truth, won't you?"

"Yes, of course."

"Don't follow us where we're going. Promise me."

"I won't," she said. "I promise."

"Goodbye, love."

"Goodbye, dear."

A guard then took the woman by the elbow and led her away. The entourage reformed, the drummer in front, followed by Sheriff Mattoon and his aides on horseback, then the company of artillery, next the militia surrounding the priest and the two prisoners, and finally the wagon with two workmen.

They began the long, slow march to the place of execution. Along the route, spectators fell in behind them, joining the procession. Once, as the line had gained a little rise in the road, Halligan chanced to look back over his shoulder. He was surprised to see that the line stretched out nearly a half mile behind them, wavering and undulating in the shimmering heat like some giant serpent.

Along the way Cheverus prayed with Daley, their heads down. Halligan remained silent. He didn't look at the countless faces that gawked at them as they passed. He looked straight ahead, at the road and the backs of the soldiers in front of him. His heart was beating faster now, and he knew it was fear. Yes, he was afraid. But more than that he was curious. Curious about it all. About death, about what would happen to him. Despite all his protestations to the contrary, he couldn't really imagine himself ceasing to exist. In a few minutes he would know the secret, that which poets and priests and wise men had written so much about. Or perhaps he would know nothing at all. Perhaps he would just be a part of the great black stillness that waited for everyone. As he walked along he fingered the two pieces of paper he carried inside his shirt. In his mind he sang the words of the song Daley had sung the previous day: On the banks of the Roses, My love and I sat down . . .

And then as they came around a bend in the road, the procession stopped for some reason. They looked up to see what the matter was. That's when he saw it, the small hill in the middle of a low-lying field used as pasture land. On the top of the hill sat the gallows, newly built, its bright yellow wood glistening like the fat of a freshly butchered sheep. He heard Daley utter a small cry deep in his throat, and he saw his head sink down upon his breast, as if none of this had been real to him until that moment.

"Mother o' God," Daley cried. The color had drained from his face, and his knees suddenly trembled and almost gave way. He staggered backwards. Halligan reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

"Easy, Dom," Halligan offered. "It's all right."

Daley turned to him, his blue-gray eyes in a terrible panic. "I'm scared, James. I fear I'll piss me pants."

"No," he assured him. "You'll do fine. I'll be right with you."

"I'm afraid."

"I know," Halligan said. "I am as well. Think of your daughter, Dom. You'll be with her in a bit."

Daley looked at him. This thought seemed to calm him a little.

"Aye," he said after a while. "Little Eva."

They continued waiting there for several minutes. Halligan could feel the sweat pouring down his face, burning the newly shaved skin. He was so thirsty. A dog, a scrawny black thing with white along its belly and throat, came running through the crowd. It scrambled into the procession, darting between the soldiers' legs. Sniffing first this one and that, as if looking for its master or simply for a handout. Some in the crowd laughed nervously at the appearance of the animal, its presence seeming to relieve the tension of the moment. Finally it came up to the prisoners. It sniffed Daley, and then moved on to Halligan. Halligan squatted, extending his hand to show it meant him no harm. The dog warily watched his hand, cowering a little, as if he'd been beaten. "Hello, fellow," he said. At last the animal allowed him to pet it. Its hair was coarse and tangled and knotted with burrs. Beneath his coat, Halligan could feel the thing's muscles quivering, the sharpness of its bones. The dog pressed in closer, smelling Halligan, sniffing about his pockets. Then he glanced up at the man with a look of expectation. "Sorry," he told the animal. "I've nothing to give you." The dog remained standing there for a moment, waiting, then it turned and bolted off into the crowd.

About then a young girl approached the group. She wore a white bonnet and a blue shortgown over a skirt of homespun. In one hand she carried a wooden bucket.

"For the prisoners," she said to one of the guards.

They allowed her to give them a drink.

She went up to Daley and ladled out some water and he bent and took a long draught. He thanked her, and then she did the same for Halligan. As he drank, he looked at the girl. She was young, no more than sixteen. She had pretty blue eyes and blond hair under her bonnet.

"Thank you, ma'am," he said. "You've been very kind."

"You're welcome, sir," she said.

Soon they were in motion again. The soldiers marched them to the very top of the hill. Though it wasn't a large hill, Halligan found himself winded by the time he reached the top. A large crowd already encircled the gallows and flowed on down to the bottom. Some sat in chairs placed here for the occasion, others in the shade of trees. As Halligan looked over them he saw a familiar face. It was the woman he had seen in court, the one who'd spat upon him. Lyon's mother. She was dressed in the same black dress and bonnet she'd worn to the trial. She looked pale and tired, wilting in the heat. An old and broken woman who had hoped this would somehow make her feel better.

The guards then stepped back so that Cheverus could say a few final words to them. He made the sign of the cross one last time and said a pater noster.

"May God bless you," he said when he was through.

"Be sure to give me wife the letters, Father." Daley sighed.

"I will."

"Father," Halligan said. The priest leaned toward him, so he could smell the incense and tallow odor of his robes. He took out his own letter, the one he'd written that morning, and he pressed it into the priest's hand. It was addressed to a Bridie Maguire of Dingle, Ireland. "Would you see to it that gets posted?"

"Yes, of course," Cheverus said.

"You were right, Father. She deserves to know the truth."

"I will pray for you, James. For your soul."

"Thank you, Father," he replied, and he meant it, too, though not in the way the priest believed.

Halligan thought of the priest's story. How he had denied God to save his neck. Hell, who wouldn't have done the same, to remain here under the lovely sky and warm sun? Still, he was a decent sort, and Halligan couldn't help feeling sorry for the man. He thought being a priest had to be a hard and lonely life. Then the guards stepped forward and took them firmly by the arms. "Thanks for everything, Father," Halligan called to the priest. "You take care of yourself now." Their gazes lingered on each other for a moment, before Cheverus nodded and turned away.

They were led up the gallows, the sheriff in front, followed by several guards carrying lengths of rope and two white, cloth hoods, the sort falconers placed on their birds. Sheriff Mattoon began by reading a statement about their sentences. About the murder of Marcus Lyon, and how they were to be hanged by the neck until dead, and that their bodies were to be dissected and anatomized. So the coffins were just for show, Halligan thought. While the sheriff spoke, he had a chance to glance around. He saw the rope holding up the platform on which they stood, and nearby an ax, its blade newly honed and glistening in the sun. Then the sheriff asked if the prisoners had any last words. Halligan said they did.

He removed the piece of paper from his shirt. He had written it, though Daley had added things he wanted to say, especially about his faith, his belief in God and all that. But otherwise it was all true what they'd put down on paper. He stepped forward, stared out over the enormous crowd. The buzzing of the spectators lessened, and then it became as still as the church had been right before the priest began to speak. They all wanted to hear what he had to say, this Irish murderer. They were hoping, he could see, for a confession, for a last-minute disclosure of their crime. In his ears and in his mouth, he could feel his heart beating, rapping wildly. His gaze happened to light on Mrs. Lyon, who stared up at him with a savage bitterness still in her weary old eyes. But it had been diluted now, perhaps by the sight of the two on the gallows. As he read, he looked directly at her.