"No quarter, Captain Budge. They have deserved none; they shall receive none." He paused, glanced up at the tower, and looked thoughtful for a moment before gazing hard at Barnaby again. "It is the Lord who has brought us here and delivered to us this town. Victory belongs to Him alone."

"God's will be done," answered Barnaby firmly. And as his troops clattered over the drawbridge a few moments later, he gave the order: "Draw your swords."

The onslaught of the Roundheads across the drawbridge had been so sudden that the defenders had no time to regroup. There were street battles going on all over the northern section of the town.

And the scattered Royalist troops were being cut down like grass. Riding up the main street, he had to pick his way over the fallen bodies. Coming to an open yard which gave onto a little garden, he found a young officer and his company. They had captured a dozen of the Royalists, who had surrendered their weapons.

"No quarter," he told the young fellow. "General Cromwell's orders." And when the officer started to protest, "I gave them my word," Barnaby said, and shook his head. "Remember what they have done to Protestant women and children. Kill them all." And he stayed there a few moments while the Roundheads went to work with their swords, to ensure that it was quickly done.

Two hundred yards ahead, a huge battle was in progress around the big church of Saint Peter. There were shouts, bangs, crashes, and the constant crack of musket fire. But Barnaby had his instructions, which were clear. He must secure the gates. There were two gates to the northern part of Drogheda, and he knew, from a map the officers had studied the previous week, exactly where they were. They lay at each end of a long cross-street, one in the eastern and one in the western wall. The eastern being closer, they rode quickly towards that. Here and there, he saw faces peering through half-closed shutters from the upper floors of the houses along the street. But they seemed to be ordinary townspeople who had remained behind. That could be checked later. The enemy, however, appeared to be all in the streets. Reaching the eastern gate, he found it was already secured, with a troop of infantry on guard. Instructing them on no account to open it, he turned back, therefore, towards the western side.

As they crossed the main axis of the town, he glanced up towards the big church where the battle was taking place. There were shouts and cries from that direction, but he did not hear the same sounds of battle as he had done before. Something had changed. Then, glancing down at the roadway, he realised that the open gutter that ran along the centre of the street was running with a shallow stream of blood. They were putting the Irish papists to the sword. He had seen streams of blood before on the battlefield, but never quite like this. They must have slaughtered several hundred already.

It was a bloody business, but he knew it must be carried through. And when he thought of the huge and bloody slaughter of innocents of which these accursed people were guilty themselves, he hardened his heart, knowing the Lord's work was being done.

The western gate lay less than four hundred yards away. But the broad street that led to it was not empty. A band of infantry troops had just gathered there. There were pikemen and musketeers, and they were quickly getting into battle order. There looked to be a hundred men or more. From a side street now, half a dozen cavalry came out, making a screen in front of the troops. He glanced back. He had twenty men, mounted and armed like himself. And the enemy, who must realise what was being done up at the church, were doubtless determined to sell their lives dear. To one of his men he called back, "Find reinforcements." The enemy might be desperate, but his troops were battle-hardened veterans, and soldiers of Christ besides. Cromwell himself had ordered him to secure the gate. God would protect them. He measured the enemy before him with a practised eye.

And just at that moment, a rift opened in the clouds and a great shaft of evening sunlight burst down upon the very place where the enemy horsemen were, flashing its sudden fire, blinding them for an instant. And seeing this, Barnaby knew with an utter certainty that this was a sign from God, lighting his way like a pillar of fire to the promised land.

"Not my arm, O Lord, but Thine," he murmured, and raising his sword high in the air so that it caught the sun with an answering flash, he called his men to charge.

Then Barnaby Budge fought for the Lord, as his horse bounded forward and he crashed into the enemy, striking this way and that as the blood of the Irish beasts burst out. The horsemen were down, the footmen were falling, the papists were parting before him as he hacked, and slashed, and struck for the Lord.

Shouts behind him. He glanced back. Roundhead reinforcements had come. So be it. The enemies of the Lord were scattering. He spurred forward and cut them down as they ran.

They were fleeing into yards and alleys, running down the street. He could see the gate, a hundred yards ahead. It was open. He started towards it.

As he did so, he saw a papist soldier at the side of the street, dressed as a horseman but without any horse, cowering by the entrance to an alley. The villain had snatched up a little child and was clasping it across his chest, his round red face gazing up at him, seemingly transfixed. Did he think to escape justice by such means?

He wheeled his horse and struck him with a single, slashing blow that burst through the wretch's collar and chest and carved through the child as well.

No doubt the child was a papist, too. No matter. He wheeled his horse again. There were still papist soldiers between him and the gate. There was still much work to be done.

And as he turned and raced at them, and struck again, and saw them fall, and felt the sun's rays upon his face, Barnaby knew the glory of God, and that the strength of the Lord was in his arm, and that he should receive the promised land of which he was owed five hundred pounds.

So it was, that evening in Drogheda, that the Royalist garrison perished, English and Irish, Protestant and Catholic. Two thousand five hundred were put to the sword, many after surrendering their weapons.

Rumour was that the townspeople also were slaughtered, and doubtless some few of them were, though the evidence is dubious.

But who should say, even if it were true, that the slaughter was shocking? When kings and parliaments decided men's faith, to differ meant bloodshed. It could not be otherwise. For a hundred years, since Luther and Calvin split Christendom, it had been the same; for generations to come, the bloodshed would continue. All over Europe, the faithful were falling, Catholic to Protestant, Protestant to Catholic. It was all one and the same.

THE STAFF OF SAINT PATRICK.

1689 MAURICE SMITH gazed at the ancient chest. He'd been meaning to open it for years.

Outside, it was a bright March day, and the breeze made its way to Rathconan with a faint hiss, like the whisper of faith itself coming up from the sea.

The chest had belonged to his father. It had been kept in storage since Walter Smith had disappeared. Maurice knew it contained some old papers, but that was all he knew; and his father had not been there to ask.

No one had ever known what happened to Walter Smith. It had been supposed that he must have been robbed and murdered somewhere when he had gone away. One or two people had suggested he might even have joined the Royalist forces; but that seemed out of character, and there was certainly no proof of such a thing. It was just as well. Had he been involved in the fighting, things might have gone harder with his family after Cromwell's victory.

Whatever had become of Walter, his papers and other personal effects had been stored. When life in Dublin had become impossible for a Catholic merchant, Maurice himself had left for France. The Doyles had kindly taken in his mother, Anne; and the chest of papers, together with the other effects, had been transferred to their attic. There they had remained, even after his return, until he had collected them a few years ago.

He had to admit, it had really been laziness on his part not to have sorted the chest before. But now, with such wonderful events taking place-and the promise of so many good things for the Catholics of Ireland-it had occurred to him that if, by chance, there were any deeds or other documents in his family's favour hidden away in the chest, this would be the time to find them. He'd discovered that the chest was locked with three different locks; but amongst his father's effects there had been quite a collection of keys, and he had found the ones relating to the chest easily enough. Having unlocked it, therefore, he dragged it near to a window and, sitting himself on a stool, opened the lid.

At first, he was a little disappointed. The documents all seemed to relate to the old Guild of Saint Anne and not to the family at all. But finding that they went back to the days of the Reformation itself, he started to read them and found such a rich history of the life of the faithful in those days that he soon became quite engrossed. An hour passed before he came to a document on thick paper, carefully folded and closed with a red wax seal, on which was written in a bold hand: DEPOSITION OF MASTER MACGOWAN.

CONCERNING THE STAFF.

The seal had never been broken. He broke it, and began to read. And as he did so, he gasped.

It was clear that the merchant had given his Deposition verbally, and that it had been written down by one of the members of the guild. Sometimes it was in the first person; in other places it strayed into the third: "Master MacGowan swears that the events took place in exactly this manner." But the subject was what mattered. For the staff of which he spoke was the Staff of Saint Patrick himself.

The Bachall Iosa: Bachall Iosa: the most sacred relic in Ireland. He knew the story of its destruction of course. Everybody did. Back in 1538, when the heretic monster King Henry VIII had ordered the holy relics of Ireland to be burned, the sacred Staff of Saint Patrick, that had been held in the hands of the saint himself more than a thousand years before, had been taken from Christ Church Cathedral and thrown on a public bonfire there, in the middle of Dublin. No greater sacrilege, no greater insult to Ireland, could have been imagined. The dark deed had never been forgotten. The Staff was gone. the most sacred relic in Ireland. He knew the story of its destruction of course. Everybody did. Back in 1538, when the heretic monster King Henry VIII had ordered the holy relics of Ireland to be burned, the sacred Staff of Saint Patrick, that had been held in the hands of the saint himself more than a thousand years before, had been taken from Christ Church Cathedral and thrown on a public bonfire there, in the middle of Dublin. No greater sacrilege, no greater insult to Ireland, could have been imagined. The dark deed had never been forgotten. The Staff was gone.

Or was it? There had been rumours since-occasional, muted whispers in the land-that the Staff might have been saved. There had been a claim that it was still in existence, some twenty years after its burning. Then nothing more had been heard. Maurice had always taken the claim to be a legend, and no more. Three years ago, a story was current in Dublin that the Staff had been seen in County Meath. But Maurice had never met anyone who'd actually set eyes on it. He suspected the story was a hoax.

The Deposition of Master MacGowan said otherwise. On that terrible day, while the soldiers were bringing cartloads of sacred objects to the fire, he had run into the cathedral, seen the Staff already out of its case, and in a brief moment, when the attention of the king's vandals was directed elsewhere, seized it and fled. He had taken the Staff to his own humble house. The following day, in the company of Alderman Doyle, he had gone quietly out of the city and conveyed the Staff to a devout family "known to the members of this guild," in Kildare. No name was given. The matter was too secret for that. Maurice supposed it was probably one of the ancient families, the guardians of monasteries and providers of priests whose service to the Church sometimes stretched back almost to the days of the saint himself.

The Deposition was corroborated and sworn to by Alderman Doyle. There was no doubt of its authenticity. And as he held it in his hand, and contemplated the implications of the document, Maurice began to tremble.

For a start, the sightings of the Staff were surely genuine. One of the most sacred objects in all Christendom was residing, quite likely, within forty miles of Dublin. But more than that: for the bruised and humiliated Catholics of Ireland, here was a religious and national symbol, an object of pride, of veneration, of inspiration, waiting to be raised on high in their very midst. And now, if the Staff were held up before the people, and their heretic rulers dared to say that it was a fraud, here in his own hand was the living proof that it was genuine.

That he should have found such a document, at such a time as this, could only mean one thing. It was a divine intervention, a sign from God. He quickly said a prayer.

Next, he had to consider what to do. For the moment, it might be best to keep the matter confidential. The document had huge value, both to the Catholic cause and its enemies; but nobody knew of its existence. It would be perfectly safe locked in the chest. He ought to share the knowledge with someone, though. Someone he could trust. And he might need help as well. It did not take him long to think of an answer. Whose family was firmer in their faith, who had more discretion, than his own cousin Donatus Walsh? That afternoon, he wrote a short and carefully worded letter. He gave no details, but he told his cousin that he had a matter of the utmost importance to discuss concerning the faith, and asked to meet him urgently, by the old Tholsel in Dublin, in three days' time, on Sunday. Then he gave it to a servant. The fellow could ride down and be in Dublin by nightfall. He could deliver it to the house in Fingal the next morning. As for the meeting in Dublin, the timing could not have been better. They would both be there anyway.

For here was the reason why his discovery was so clearly a sign from God: Ireland had been given a Catholic King-and he was arriving in Dublin, on Sunday.

The letter arrived while Donatus Walsh was out. He had gone to Saint Marnock's well. Now, sinking to his knees, he gave thanks for Ireland's deliverance.

Forty years had passed since the terrible coming of Cromwell: forty years, during which the Walsh family had never lost faith, not even in the darkest days. And proof of God's Grace had not been lacking. Yet who could have imagined the wondrous events unfolding now?

Donatus loved this holy place. How often he had come here with his father, Orlando. And it was thanks to his father that he had been able to spend so much of his childhood in Fingal, on this estate he knew and loved so well. His father's watchwords had been simple: keep faith; and hold on. He had never lost faith. For a while, he had been able to hold on.

For after the terrible massacre at Drogheda, however much he had disliked doing it, Orlando had continued to supply Dublin Castle with rent and the Dublin troops with food. Cromwell had smashed his way through Ireland; but he had not remained long, and left his commanders to mop up. Despite the ruthless efficiency of their military operations, it had still taken them another couple of years before every corner of Ireland was completely subdued. During that time, when cash and food were scarce, the authorities had little reason to trouble themselves with the Walshes. But it could not last forever.

Donatus had been nearly twelve when his father had returned from Dublin one day, looking grim, and announced: "They mean to transplant us."

"What do you mean-transplant?" his mother had asked.

"The Catholics. They mean to send all the Catholics to the west- into Connacht. The rest of Ireland is to be given to the Protestants."

Later, Donatus had learned that his father, and thousands like him, had thought for a time that they might be executed. Several hundred executions were carried out, including the killing of numerous priests. Many others fled. But fortunately, the executions had been curtailed. Once the godly men of England had gained their victory, it had soon appeared, it was not the death of the Irish rebels that they sought. It was their land.

Soldiers, adventurers, friends of Cromwell, governments officials, men like Pincher, godly men all-it was land that they had come for, and land they must be given. "It'll take two-thirds of Ireland to satisfy them all," Orlando had remarked. But that didn't worry the English. "The more land we take," they pointed out, "the more Protestant Ireland will be."

The procedure decided upon had been simple. Many of the greatest rebels had fled. Most of them were Catholic, of course; though some, like the great Ormond, had been Royalist Protestants. Their land was taken at once. But after these came the hundreds of lesser men, including many of the Fingal landowners, whose part in the rebellion had been slight. What should be done with them? A handful of gentlemen, including some Catholics who had turned informer or aided the English cause, were left with their land as a reward. But for the rest, a novel solution was found. "If they're Protestant, let's fine them," the government men suggested. "If they're Catholic, kick them out." But rather than completely ruin them, Cromwell's administrators decided that, depending on their degree of guilt, they might be given a half or a third of the value of their estates in the poor land of Connacht, in the west. To leave his land in Fingal, where his family had been for centuries, to go to the wilds of Connacht? It seemed to Orlando to be a monstrous idea. But one of the new men in Dublin Castle had put it to him very simply. "You have a choice, Master Walsh. You can go to hell, or Connacht."

It had taken some time even so. The scale of the operation was huge, and they couldn't move everyone at once. Continuing his services to Dublin as before, Orlando had managed to remain on his Fingal estate for another year and more.

It was in 1653 that old Doctor Pincher had arrived. There had been an outbreak of plague in the city, and he came with orders that he was to be accommodated on the estate until he wished to return. Donatus had been rather fascinated by the thin, black figure who looked at him so coldly, occupied the best bedroom, and expected to be waited on, hand and foot. His father told him that the scholar preacher was over eighty years old. But the old man's visit had also been educational.

Doctor Pincher had been there ten days when his nephew Captain Budge came to visit. He stayed only one night. Usually, the old man ate alone in his room, but on that occasion they had all supped together, and Donatus had observed the big, flat-faced officer with interest. Captain Budge was an important man, with an estate of his own. For when Brian O'Byrne had wisely fled for his life from Ireland, Rathconan had been given to Budge. So when his father had politely questioned Budge about the coming transplantations, Donatus had listened carefully. Did the policy not seem a little harsh, Orlando had gently enquired.

"No, Sir. Necessity," Budge had answered. "The Irish natives, of course, are averse to all civility. Incapable of self-government. Mere beasts."

Living on the estate in Fingal, Donatus had never heard the Irish described in this manner. The servants, the tenants, and men in the fields, the fishermen by the shore, the oystermen at Malahide, the craftsmen at Swords-the gentle, hospitable Irish folk he had grown up with were not so dissimilar, he had supposed, to country folk in other lands. But Budge had not finished.

"They must be kept down. They killed three hundred thousand innocent Protestants, remember."

"That's quite untrue, you know," Orlando had answered mildly, and he had glanced at Doctor Pincher. But the preacher only put a piece of bread in his mouth and chewed upon it. He still had most of his teeth.

"It is true," Barnaby said. "It was in a book."

"Books can lie," Orlando remarked.

"Papist books can. This was a Protestant book." Barnaby nodded to himself. "And it was the papist gentry who led them into revolt before," he pointed out, "so we'll make sure it never happens again. Every Irish chief, all the priests, every man with knowledge of arms, every Catholic gentleman of repute, they will all be removed, out of this land. Then the Irish dogs will have Protestant masters who will keep them docile. That is the purpose of the transplantation."

"So I must go to Connacht?"

"Most assuredly," said Barnaby.

It was the first time that Donatus had really understood the mind of the English settlers who were now to rule the land.

The following spring, the Walsh family had been transplanted. Taking four carts piled high with their furniture and possessions, their jewelry, and coins of gold and silver sewn into their clothes, Donatus and his parents had set out on the long road westwards. Daniel, though unable to understand why they were leaving, had naturally been with them, too. They were accompanied by only three family retainers; the rest of the servants, the tenants, the cottagers, and labourers had all remained on the estate in Fingal. In this, the Walshes were repeating the pattern found everywhere else. The great mass of the native Irish stayed exactly where they were, to till the land for their new Protestant masters, while their hereditary landlords went to Connacht.

"We are in good company, at least," his father had remarked wryly. By the time they left, so many neighbours and friends had already gone the same way. Some had Irish names: Conran or Kennedy, Brady or Kelly. But often as not, the transplanted families bore Old English names: Cusack and Cruise, Dillon and Fagan, Barry, Walsh, Plunkett, Fitz this or Fitz that.

Most of the land around Dublin had been taken over by the government directly, to be let out on leases. It did not come as a great surprise to learn, upon their way, that Doctor Pincher had secured a lease on their own estate-at a rent of only half of what Orlando had been forced to pay to stay there himself.

There was only one problem that his father, by holding on to his land as long as he could, had not foreseen.

It had never been clear what size of land grant would be allowed to Orlando Walsh. After numerous enquiries at Dublin Castle, he had realised that even the Dublin men did not know. "It's all being arranged at Athlone," they had told him. "You'll have to wait till you get there." It was not until they had been travelling slowly westwards for five days that they reached Athlone. The court administering the land grants to the transplanted gentry was in a large house in the main street. On arrival, they found an inn; and the next morning Orlando had gone to the land offices, taking Donatus with him. The man in charge, a small, bald-headed fellow with a businesslike air, gazed at Orlando with genuine regret.

"It's a pity you didn't come a few months earlier," he sighed. "Then you might have done better."

"You have instructions concerning me?"

"Not really. We are to find something for everyone, if we can. But it's all at our discretion." He shook his head. "Cromwell, you know, has a general idea of what he wants, and he knows what he hates; but he is not an administrator. He issues instructions; but details . . ." He spread his hands to indicate that there were none. "The transplanting to Connacht has been . . ." Again, he indicated with his hands that the process had been chaotic.

"I'm only here to clean up," he went on. "The men who allocated the land are mostly gone, now. Nothing to keep them. They've made their fortunes, you see." He gave Orlando a meaningful stare. "There's a little place down in Clare," he said. "It's only about thirty acres. Not what you've been used to at all. But you could subsist there I think. It's the best of what's left."

A few inquiries had corroborated the truth of what the fellow had told him. The transplanting had not only been a shambles; it had been a scandal. Men who were supposed to receive nothing, but who came early, with handsome bribes for the officials running the court, had secured large tracts of land. Others, due hundreds of acres, had been lucky to receive fifty. Chaos and official bribery were to be expected when any conqueror reallocated the resources of a country-how could it ever be otherwise? But the transplanting to Connacht had been an unedifying sight.

So had begun the seven long years in County Clare. Their little farmstead had a small dwelling, which Donatus and his father had slowly rebuilt. The land at least had given them subsistence. Their neighbours had been kindly. The Walshes worked hard, and they had survived. But the first two years in the cramped and leaking cottage had been especially hard. They had sent two of their retainers back to Fingal, since they could scarcely keep them and there was nothing for them to do. Though she had tried to put a brave face on it, Mary Walsh had been depressed. But the person who had suffered most had been poor Daniel. If his understanding was limited, he had seemed to sense the unhappiness of Mary more strongly than the others. He clung to her, almost fretfully sometimes; and this too was hard for her to bear. After a year, he had grown sick, and died. Orlando had warned Donatus, long before, "The simpletons, you know, seldom live to twenty," and so he knew he must not grieve too much. But a cloud of sadness had hung over the family for many months after they had buried Daniel.

One thing Donatus did count as a blessing however was that, because of this exile, he came to know his father better than he might otherwise have done. He knew the humiliation his father felt at their poor conditions; and he admired the fact that he never showed it. Together they worked their little piece of land-kept pigs, a few cows, grew cereal crops. And Orlando also took his education upon himself-as a result of which, by the time he was twenty, Donatus already knew most of what the University of Salamanca had to offer, together with a general knowledge of Irish legal practice. Perhaps, by keeping constant company with an older man, he acquired an outlook somewhat middle-aged for a boy of his years. But this was hardly a time for the enjoyment of childhood things; and it gave him great joy to know that he stood, in all things, side by side with his father.

Every year, they had made a pilgrimage to Fingal. As transplanted men, it was illegal for them to travel; but they went discreetly, and they were never caught. Those were times of reunions. The tenants on the estate would welcome them and hide them in their cottages. One of them would even give Orlando part of the rent. "I tell that old devil Pincher that I can't afford to pay him the full amount. Damned Protestant. He doesn't know one way or the other," he would say with glee. Their cousin Doyle would also come out from Dublin to meet them. Before leaving, Orlando had left a hundred pounds in his safekeeping; fortunately, he seldom had to draw down much of this. And Doyle would give them the latest news from Dublin. Often this concerned the latest goings-on amongst the Dublin churches.

If there was one aspect of Cromwell's rule that afforded the Catholics-and the Old English Protestants like Doyle-some light relief in the darkness, it was his ordering of the churches. Of course, papist priests were to be killed; the high Anglican church of King Charles, with its bishops and ceremonies, was firmly abolished. But beyond this, like most army men, Cromwell believed that the congregations should be free to choose their own, godly preachers. The results, even in Christ Church itself, had sometimes been startling. Baptists, Quakers, sectarians of various kinds, and above all, Independents, each with his own, particular vision, had all appeared in Dublin. Some of their services were sombre; others ranted; a few had even induced hysteria. Doyle, with his cynical mind, would take a quiet pleasure in attending these services and reporting their excesses to Orlando. "You see, my dear son," he would remark to Donatus, "how right our priests are when they tell us: the trouble with these Protestants is that they are completely confused."

It was their third return to Fingal when they'd learned that old Doctor Pincher had died. His nephew Captain Budge had taken over the lease. But the circumstances of his death had been somewhat remarkable. It was their tenant, when he gave them their rent, who told them. "Just before the end, he was delirious. Screaming he was-about a man attacking him with a sword. And when they came to dress his body, what did they find but a scar? Right the way across his back, from his shoulders down to his ribs. So there must have been some reason for his words. Then in comes Captain Budge, and they tell him about it. And he looks thoughtful for a while. Then: 'It was in the rebellion of '41,' he says. 'It was the Catholics that attacked my dear uncle. He was lucky not to be martyred.' Do you suppose it was true?"

"I never heard it before," said Orlando.

Before Donatus and his father left Fingal, their routine was always the same. Together they would go to the holy well at Portmarnock to pray together there. "I do it," Orlando used to remind him, "just as my father did before me." And while they were there, he would also say: "I am sorry, Donatus, that you should see your father brought so low. But we must never lose faith. It was God's Grace that, after so many years waiting, gave you to us. And in time, after we are tested, He will restore us again, as He sees fit."

And so, in the end, it had come to pass. God had restored them.

Their deliverance had come from England. For while Cromwell had been successful in crushing Ireland under colonial rule, England itself had been another matter. For all his military might, Cromwell had never been able to find a satisfactory government to replace the monarchy he had destroyed. Rule by Parliament, a Protectorate in which he was king himself in all but name, military rule by generals-all had been tried, none had worked. And when, after a decade, the exhausted tyrant had died, his son hadn't even wanted to fill his shoes. In 1660, the English Parliament and the late king's son had come to an understanding. King Charles II was restored to the English throne-on certain conditions.

One of these was that the Protestant settlers in Ireland should keep their land. But there had been some minor exceptions. And when Ormond had been returned to Ireland as the new king's Lord Lieutenant, he had graciously remembered the unlucky Walsh family. His word had been enough to assure the royal officials that Orlando had committed no crime; and somewhat grudgingly, Barnaby Budge had been persuaded that he should give up his uncle's lease. Unlike many of their friends, the Walshes had returned to Fingal. It was proof, indeed, of God's Grace towards them.

By God's continuing Grace, he had lived here ever since. He had seen both his parents live to old age. He had known the joy of having a family of his own, and recently married both his daughters to good men. Five years ago, his wife had died, and he had supposed that this part of his life was over. But rather to his surprise, he had found happiness again. Even more wonderful, this last December, his new wife had given him his first son. In a mood of great celebration, they had named the baby Fortunatus.

And now, in a series of events that could never have been foreseen, the continuing faith of the Walshes, and countless families like them, had been granted a new hope. King Charles II of England, a man who loved building, the sciences, and his many mistresses, had suddenly died four years ago, and been succeeded by his brother James. And James II was a Catholic. He had arrived in Ireland ten days ago, and was coming to Dublin to hold a Catholic Parliament. The situation was by no means without danger. Nobody knew what was going to happen next. Perhaps the Catholics of Ireland would be tested again. But this much was certain, Donatus would be in Dublin that Sunday to welcome the new king, come what may.

When he got back to the house and found the letter from his cousin Maurice, he read it with curiosity. But also with a smile. Maurice Smith was a good man of business. He had done well enough during his time in France. And when the more easygoing rule of Charles II finally encouraged him to return with his family to Dublin, he had managed, despite being a Catholic, to prosper there. Yet there was something of the romantic in his cousin too. He'd be swept away by sudden enthusiasms.

The purchase of his estate was a case in point. When Brian O'Byrne, along with most of the other Irish gentry, had been forced to flee from Cromwell, and the Rathconan estate had been granted to Barnaby Budge, it had been a sad thing, to be sure. Budge had taken over, and though the people up in the Wicklow Mountains hated him, there wasn't much they could do. Budge had lived in the old fortified house, called himself a gentleman, and obtained other property and leases whenever he could. He'd kept Rathconan through the restoration of Charles II, and lived there until he died a dozen years ago. But when his elder son had come into the place, he'd had trouble. His father and his younger brother Joshua were made of sterner stuff, but Mr. Benjamin Budge was a peaceable fellow, and it wasn't long before he'd been troubled by Tories.

It always amused Donatus that the two political camps in the English Parliament should be known by such curious names. The party that believed Parliament should control the King, and that was generally more Protestant, were known as the Whigs, which was a term of gentle scorn. A member of the King's party, on the other hand, was known as a Tory-which meant an Irish brigand.

And it was certainly Irish brigands-local men, mostly, who loved the freedom of the Wicklow Mountains and hated the Puritan settlers there-who had made the life of poor Mr. Benjamin Budge so miserable. By the latter part of the reign of Charles II, that genial monarch had eased the restrictions, so that a Catholic could once again buy land. So when Maurice Smith had made him a fair offer for the estate, Benjamin Budge had taken the money and been glad to be rid of the place. He resided in Dublin, at present, and seemed to have no desire to purchase another estate.

But why had his cousin Maurice been so anxious to go up into the mountains like that? Donatus had often wondered. He knew that Maurice had always had a liking for Brian O'Byrne, and felt an affinity for his mountain estate. Certainly, since living up there, he'd always claimed to be very happy; and since he was a Catholic, with some vague connections to the place, the local people seemed to have tolerated him well enough. But he'd put all his fortune into Rathconan, and Donatus doubted that he was getting much of a return. It was just like Maurice, after years of saving, to do such a thing.

So as he read the letter his cousin had sent from Rathconan once again, and considered the mysterious excitement of its language, he wondered what new idea Maurice might have got now.

Sunday, March 24. Palm Sunday: festival of the Saviour's entry into Jerusalem. Was the date, also, a sign from God? King James came in through Saint James's Gate, in the west.