It was a notable gathering. Young Brian felt a justifiable pride-not just that so many great men had come from far and wide to pay their last respects to his father, but that they had come with such obvious affection; and he, in turn, felt full of love for them all.

Above all, he loved Rathconan. It was always the same, unaltered since the days of his great-grandfather Sean, a century ago: a modest fortified house with a square stone tower, not in the best of repair, that looked down from the slopes of the Wicklow Mountains towards the distant blue haze of the sea. The untidy cluster of farm buildings nearby was the same; so was the little chapel where, in Sean O'Byrne's day, Father Donal had celebrated Mass. Even the descendants of Father Donal were still there. One was a priest himself, though unlike Father Donal, he had no wife and children, for few priests lived in that old Irish way now. His brother, on the other hand, a scholar and a poet, hired himself out very successfully as a teacher to families in the area, which profession allowed him to keep body and soul together-and also to father children whose number was not precisely known. Priest and scholar, cattlemen and shepherds, Rathconan families and their neighbours, this was the little world that Brian O'Byrne, educated by the priest and his brother, clothed by a Dublin tailor, and guided by a wise and loving father, had come to inherit and to take pride in.

He was proud of being an O'Byrne, too. Though, with the O'Tooles, they were the most famous of the old Wicklow Mountain ruling families, you couldn't exactly point to any of them and say: "There's an O'Byrne for you." Some were dark, some fair, some tall, some short. Six hundred years of breeding, even in a single region, will usually provide a variety of types. Nor could you be sure of their political allegiance. Generally, by the end of Queen Elizabeth's long reign, the O'Byrnes in the northern section of Wicklow, nearer to Dublin, had come to cooperate with the English government, like it or not; though none of them had gone so far as to turn Protestant. Down in the southern mountain passes, however, the powerful O'Byrne chiefs had kept a magnificent independence. When Tyrone struck against the English crown, it was the chief of the southern O'Byrnes who was his most important ally. "It was O'Byrne that was his link to the King of Spain. It was he who made it a great campaign for the Catholic cause," Brian's father had told him proudly. "Yet you were not in favour of Tyrone's actions," Brian had reminded him. The O'Byrnes of Rathconan, with the northern O'Byrnes, had stayed out of the conflict.

"That is true," his father had said, with some regret. "But it was a fine thing all the same."

His father had given moral leadership in the area during two very difficult decades. Tall, brave, handsome, an ancient Irish prince to his fingertips, no one had any doubt where his heart lay. But he was cautious and wise. When Tyrone's great adventure had failed, he had been sorrowful but not surprised. In 1606, a year before the Flight of the Earls, the great, wild mountain country of Wicklow had finally been designated an English shire-the last part of Ireland, despite its closeness to Dublin, to be brought under English administration. Not that you'd have seen much difference up in the high and empty passes. But all the same, in theory at least, the Irish independence of the region was over. Yet on this subject, too, his father had been philosophical.

"In generations past, we raided the English farms down on the plain. And they sent soldiers up into the hills, and sometimes they were ambushed and killed, and at other times they beat us. Those days, however, are over. There are other and better ways to live." So he would counsel his neighbours. And to Brian he would always say: "If you want to preserve Rathconan and all the things you love, then you must be wise. Play the English at their own game. Learn to change."

"But what sort of change, Father? How will I have to change?"

"I don't know," his father had answered frankly. "You will have to be wise in your own generation. That is all I can advise."

And now, all too soon, his own time had begun. His father had not been so old, but he had been stricken by sickness for more than a year, sunken by the end, ready to go.

The wake had begun some time ago. The body had been handsomely laid out. There had been keening. But most of the visitors had come to pay their quiet respects. The food and drink provided had been liberal. A piper was playing a quiet lament; before long some more cheerful music would begin. He had already received the condolences of each of the guests; now he was making the rounds himself, to make sure that all the courtesy and hospitality the occasion demanded was fulfilled. He had just noticed Tadhg O'Byrne scowling at him and muttering something. He would rather have avoided the fellow, but supposed he ought to go over to him. And he was just bracing himself to do so when, staring down the slope, his eye was caught by a strange figure he had never seen before, riding slowly up the track towards the house.

He was a tall, thin man. His doublet, cape, and breeches were all an inky black. He wore a high black hat with no feather. Behind him rode a servant dressed in grey. Though the track was sunlit, it was as though a small cloud of gloom had dropped its shadow into the mountain passes.

Brian wondered who the man was.

Doctor Simeon Pincher had been in a bad temper when he met Doyle. But that wasn't surprising. Doctor Pincher had been in a bad temper for over a year.

In Ireland, as in England, the Irish Parliament was not in regular session, but met from time to time when there was specific business to transact. Last year, however, a Parliament had been called to assemble in Dublin, and a very impressive gathering it was proving to be. If the old parliaments in Tudor and Plantagenet times had mostly consisted of gentlemen from the English Pale around Dublin, this one had drawn men from every part of the island.

There had been some trouble at first. The Old English, mostly Catholic, had threatened not to take part; but they had finally settled down to business and proceeded, it had seemed to Pincher, in the right direction. The Oath of Supremacy had been affirmed as compulsory for all government officials. They must swear to recognise the king's spiritual authority over the Pope's, or lose their jobs. A move had been made to insist that every lawyer must swear, too. That would have ended the legal practice of loyal Catholics like Martin Walsh, and the idea was dropped. Recusant Catholics who refused to drop the old faith were to pay fines, although the Parliament, sadly, wasn't yet ready to compel them to attend the Church of Ireland. "I'd compel them," Pincher had firmly declared. And proclamations against foreign education and against the regular priests were also being issued. Despite its faults, however, the Parliament was moving in the right general direction. And the chief reason lay in its composition.

For the Protestants outnumbered the Catholics. A hundred and thirty-two to a hundred. A few of the Catholics were native Irish lords, but most were Old English. So who were all these Protestants? Were they the old guard who had chosen the Church of Ireland, men like the lord of Howth, or Doyle of Dublin? Some, to be sure. But the men who had swelled the Protestant numbers, the men who would make the difference in the long run, were the new arrivals: they were the men from the plantations. And that, strangely enough, was the thing that angered Pincher. Not that he was angry with the plantation men: far from it. He was angry with himself.

"It was lack of faith," he had confessed to his sister in a letter. "Want of courage." He had failed to invest.

The trouble had been the scale of the thing. When he had made his visit to Ulster seven years ago, he had seen the opportunities for a successful plantation. So when, after the Flight of the Earls and the confiscation of the Tyrone and Tyrconnell territories, there had been talk of an Ulster plantation, he had not taken up the farm he could have had, in the hope of something better. But such huge tracts of Ulster and Connacht had become available that the entire scale of operations had changed. The Undertakers were operating on a vast scale. The city of London had taken over the whole area of Derry and changed its name to Londonderry. Where it had been supposed that men would take on a thousand acres or two, developers were snapping up thousands, even tens of thousands, of acres.

The outside world was changing. The Dublin familiar to Walsh, Doyle, or even Pincher was that of the late Elizabethan age. But the last decade in London had seen a transformation. It was the age of the daring merchant-adventurer. King James, freed from his dour youth in Scotland, was indulging his taste for luxury. The English court was corrupt; greed and excess were the watchwords. Daring, grasping men looking for quick returns were encouraged. Such was the spirit of the men who undertook the plantation of Ulster.

And seeing such great fellows moving upon Ulster, Pincher had held back. His time was limited, he told himself: he had to teach and preach. His capital was modest. The business was too big for him. This was an alien world of which-he had the honesty to admit it-he was a little afraid. And so he had hung back.

So now, seeing all these new gentlemen from the plantations coming into Dublin, he was overwhelmed by a sense of failure. Like one of the foolish virgins in the Gospel parable, he had been unprepared; when the moment came, he had been found wanting. Only the day before, one of the young scholars at Trinity College had come upon the good doctor sitting under a tree, lost in thought. As he was coming from behind, the doctor had not been aware of his approach, and the young scholar, drawing close, had heard Pincher murmur to himself, quite distinctly: "Predestined profit; justified returns." Then the doctor had sadly shaken his head; and the young scholar, puzzled by the words but feeling he should not be there, had tiptoed away.

Simeon Pincher, therefore, confessing his fault, was determined to remedy it; and until he had found a means of doing so, he lived every day of his life in a state of suppressed irritation.

The morning he spoke with Doyle, however, he had been preparing for a venture which, from everything he had heard, seemed likely to bring him, safely and securely, the profits which were surely by now his due. And he had been wondering how best to plan the journey he must make when, entering the precincts of Christ Church, he had caught sight of a small group of familiar figures; it occurred to him that one of them might be useful to him.

Doyle was the first one he acknowledged, with a polite inclination of the head. A man of substance, a pillar of the Church of Ireland, a member of the Trinity Guild. He owed Doyle a favour, too. The previous Sunday, he'd been due to preach in Christ Church, and as well as the usual collection of government officials from Dublin Castle, he'd known the congregation would be swelled by a number of Protestant Members of Parliament. It was an opportunity for him to make a good impression. There was only one problem.

The aldermen of Dublin were supposed to accompany the mayor to the cathedral on Sundays. But since many of them were papists, they would often attend Mass themselves beforehand, bring the mayor ceremonially to the cathedral, deposit him in his seat, and then calmly leave for a local inn, where they'd have a few drinks, returning only after the sermon to escort the mayor out again. Not only was this the sort of casual Irish behaviour that appalled Pincher, but he dreaded it happening on the day he preached. It would look to the visitors as if the aldermen couldn't be bothered to hear him preach. So he had spoken to Doyle.

Sometimes in the past, Pincher had suspected that Doyle might not like him. But he had certainly stood by him last Sunday. No fewer than ten aldermen had turned up. When three of them had seemed about to leave, Doyle had given them such a look they had reluctantly sat down again. They had even stayed awake while he preached. He owed a debt of gratitude to Doyle for that. No question.

Beside Doyle stood young Walter Smith. A serious young man. A pity he was a papist. For that reason, normally, Pincher would have taken as little notice of him as possible. But he remembered that Walter Smith was married to Walsh the lawyer's girl, and he knew that Walsh and Doyle were cousins. Out of courtesy to Doyle, therefore, he nodded politely to Walter Smith as well.

The third man was Jeremiah Tidy. And now Doctor Pincher smiled.

"Good day, Master Tidy."

"Good day to Your Honour."

Thank God for Tidy. A reliable man. Three generations of service to Christ Church and the Church of Ireland. Jeremiah had been born and bred to it, knew every inch of the building from the extensive crypt to the top of the tower. He'd been only twenty years old when he'd been appointed sexton, on account of his long family connection, and he was still only twenty-five now. But with his slightly hunched shoulders and his little pointed beard, he had already achieved an agelessness that was pleasing to his employers.

It was Tidy who watched over the graves and tombs; Tidy who, with the verger, arranged the services and rang the great bell which regulated the life of the cathedral and city alike; Tidy who for a modest fee was always happy to take on extra jobs to oblige you. Reliable. Respectful. He had a great reverence for Trinity College, also. "It was my mother's family, the MacGowans, who supplied all the doors and windows in the college, Your Honour," he would remind Doctor Pincher. "And a fine place it is, I'm sure you will agree, Sir."

"It is indeed," Pincher would agree.

"A place well-suited, Your Honour, to a fine Cambridge scholar such as yourself." What was it in the sexton's soft voice that he found disconcerting? It was so polite, so respectful, so gently insinuating. Was it almost too respectful? He glanced at the sexton with a slight frown of uncertainty.

A Cambridge man like him: what did Tidy mean by it? Pincher used to wonder. If he meant anything at all. Was it possible, the learned doctor would ask himself, that the sexton had somehow come to hear about that foolish business at Cambridge? He couldn't imagine how. But why should he mention Cambridge in that way, whenever they met? Surely not, he told himself. It could not be. The business had been in another country, long ago. And besides . . .

It was Tidy, in fact, who had mentioned to him that the cathedral clerk had heard of an excellent living with some promising land becoming available shortly. And it was thanks to that timely information, and an immediate visit to the chapter clerk, that Pincher was now about to set off on another journey, southwards this time, that might bring him some of the profits which, surely by now, he deserved.

And it was when he had told the three men of the route he proposed to take, and asked for their advice about where to break his journey, that after thinking for a moment or two, Doyle had suggested: "You could rest with the O'Byrnes at Rathconan, I should say."

On hearing the name, Pincher had blanched. A papist? A native Irish chief? Despite the diverse allegiances of the various O'Byrnes, despite the tradition of Irish hospitality to travellers that went back to the dawn of time, despite even the fact that Wicklow was now an English shire, Doctor Pincher had heard too many stories of the wild O'Byrnes in the past not to feel nervous at the prospect of such an encounter. But he saw young Walter Smith nod in agreement, and even Tidy looked perfectly calm at the prospect. Doyle, guessing his thoughts, smiled.

"You'll receive a good welcome there," he assured him. "The O'Byrnes of Rathconan are quite English in their ways."

And, no doubt to put him at his ease, Tidy chimed in: "They'd have great respect, Your Honour, for a Cambridge scholar such as yourself."

So here he was, approaching the house at Rathconan, and a scene that filled him with horror.

An Irish wake. Obviously, Doyle had not been aware of any death in the O'Byrne family when he had suggested the visit, and Pincher wondered what to do. Should he try to find another house? Some distance to the south lay the ruins of the ancient monastery of Glendalough. He could reach it by dusk, he supposed. Was there any sort of house there? He wasn't sure. He certainly had no wish to sleep in some peasant's hut, or out in the open in the wilds of the Wicklow Mountains. Should he turn away now, or ask for directions to another place? He was still hesitating when he saw a handsome, fair-haired young man, dressed in English style, coming towards him.

"I am Brian O'Byrne," he introduced himself politely, and gazed at him, Pincher noticed, with a pair of the most unusual green eyes.

Explaining his business, and that Doyle had sent him, Pincher apologised for his intrusion. "Doyle would not have known of my father's death when he sent you," the young man replied. "I am sorry for your trouble," Pincher answered. Could O'Byrne suggest another house in the area where he might find shelter? But young Brian wouldn't hear of it. "There's a chamber on the upper floor where you can rest the night comfortably enough-even if I cannot promise you silence." And so, uncertain where else to go, and not wishing to offend the young chief, Pincher rather unwillingly allowed himself to be escorted towards the old stone tower.

There was a great crowd of people outside, several hundred of them. Tables had been set up, well stocked with food and sweetmeats. Some of the guests were drinking wine, but most appeared to be imbibing ale or whiskey. Leaving his servant to see to the horses, and hoping the fellow would not be drunk when he needed him, he accompanied young Brian O'Byrne inside. He knew enough to be prepared for what must follow, as his host led him toward the room at the back of the tower. There, laid out on a large table covered with white sheets, was the body of Toirdhealbhach O'Byrne, washed and shaven, a fine-looking man, it had to be said, even when sunken in death with a crucifix in his folded hands. There were no others in the room, the company having all come to pay their respects long since, except for a middle-aged woman, a cousin of the deceased, who sat on a stool in a corner so that the dead man should not be left alone. The room was well lit by the small plantation of candles on a narrow table by the wall, whose waxy smoke gave the room a churchlike atmosphere.

Trying to avert his eyes from the cursed rosary, Pincher murmured, as he knew he must, that the former chief had been most handsomely laid out, and not knowing the gentleman himself, could only add, once again, that he was sorry for their trouble. After that, he politely withdrew and followed his young host up a spiral stair to a spacious chamber containing a wooden bed, no worse than his own in Dublin. A short while later, Brian O'Byrne reappeared bearing food and wine himself, which, with all the business of his father's wake going on, was exceedingly civil of him, Pincher had to acknowledge. His host also made clear to him that, should he at any time wish to join the company below, he would be more than welcome. An offer well-understood as kindly intended; though noncommittally, gratefully it was declined. And so for the rest of the evening Doctor Pincher, being predestined for higher things than the company of the Irish, kept to his chamber.

If only it weren't for the noise. The customary wailing of the women, the wild songs of lament and the cries of grief, he had always found disgusting. "In their grief," he had once written to his sister, "they are like savages." That, mercifully, had been over before he arrived. But worse was to come.

Some aspects of the wake he could understand. The coming together of friends and neighbours, the sharing of bereavement, the kind words, even the gentle telling of stories about the departed one: all this, it seemed to him, was proper. He did not even mind the food and drink, so long as everyone maintained sobriety. And indeed, when a child had died, or a parent been snatched away from the young family who needed them, these wakes were sad and solemn affairs, when neighbours gave support and charity. He certainly saw no harm in that. But when a man had lived a long life and death was expected, when as well as telling kindly stories, the guests started asking riddles, or playing games-even involving the corpse himself-then it seemed to Pincher that the fundamental lack of seriousness, of decency-indeed, the pagan nature and immorality-of the native Irish lay exposed. It was hideous to him.

That in this ancient process there might be great wisdom; that after the catharsis of grief fully expressed, there might be closure; and in the affectionate games and humour-this sharing of life with the dead-there might be a healing and a coming to terms with the awfulness of death: such notions had no place in his own, monotone picture of the universe. He had no idea why they did it.

The sun was setting when he heard the women singing-a slow, eerie, nasal chant that he knew was called a cronan cronan-not unpleasing to the ear. These went on for some time as the dusk fell; and since he heard no other sounds, he assumed they were being listened to in silence. Looking out of his window as the last of the cronans cronans ended, he could see that the first stars had appeared in the gloaming. And then, after only the shortest pause, the gentle drone of a single bagpipe started to rise into the air. And now even Doctor Pincher sat down on the bed to listen. ended, he could see that the first stars had appeared in the gloaming. And then, after only the shortest pause, the gentle drone of a single bagpipe started to rise into the air. And now even Doctor Pincher sat down on the bed to listen.

A piper's lament. The haunting strain echoed around the hillside, mournful yet strangely comforting. And despite himself, Pincher experienced that special sensation, the melancholy yet thrilling warmth about the heart that only the sound of the pipes can bring. He listened, and wished it might go on forever. But after a time it ended.

Then there was a little pause, followed soon after by a lilting tune, half soulful perhaps, but in which the more cheerful sound of a fiddle joined beside the piper like a good companion. The melody was pleasant, Pincher supposed; but it seemed to him that there had been enough music, and that it would be more fitting if, having paid their respects, the guests were now to take their leave. He was glad when the music stopped.

He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. From below, he could hear the faint sounds of conversation, even of laughter. It had been a long day. He hoped that he might fall asleep. In the morning, he thought, he would leave at the earliest opportunity. If he could just shut out the voices and lie very still, he could begin to drift into sleep. He breathed slowly, kept his eyes shut. He felt himself drifting.

And then the fiddles began. Loudly. Several of them, accompanied by a whistle. A merry sound. There were shouts, laughter. By all that was unholy: they were playing a jig. He started in fury from his bed and rushed to the window. Torches were being lighted outside. He could see the company all round the tower. They were dancing. It was like a pagan orgy or a scene from the infernal regions. They were dancing a jig.

He gazed in horror. Not only were they merrily dancing, but the jig went on and on, as if to see who could dance the longest without dropping.

And now-he had known it from the beginning, of course-but now, having heard, having seen with his own eyes, having looked down upon this dreadful jig, it seemed to Doctor Pincher that he understood with a new and ghastly clarity that, even if they smiled at you or put on English clothes, these Irish papists were, indeed, lower than the beasts. They were all, all destined for eternal damnation. There could be no possible doubt of it. With a cry of anguish, he turned round, threw himself facedown upon the bed, and tried to stop his ears.

But the dancing and the music went on. Some of the dances were jigs; others he did not recognise. He had heard that the Irish performed a sword dance. For all he knew, they might be doing that. What he knew for certain was that he could get no rest.

Perhaps, if he could distract his mind from the sounds below, he could get to sleep. He tried thinking about the journey he was to make the following day. That prospect, at least, brought him some comfort.

Both Trinity College and Christ Church Cathedral were endowed with many lands-on which, from time to time, good leases might be obtained; and he had long been hoping to obtain one of these. But the opportunity that had now presented itself was even better.

For of all the Protestant landlords in Ireland, none was richer, or more godly, than Richard Boyle, the great Protestant settler. Having acquired, from the reign of Queen Elizabeth, vast tracts of land in Munster, he was the patron of numerous livings, from which a good Protestant preacher might derive an income. "I've just heard there's a living coming free any day in north Munster. And you're just the kind of godly man that Boyle would approve of," the Chapter Clerk had told him. "It's a little wild there, however. The land will have to be cleared before you can grow anything. Would you mind that?"

"Oh no," said Pincher. "I shouldn't mind at all."

Woodlands. For centuries, the vast forests that had once covered most of the island had been a valuable source of timber. Mostly, it had been exported. Some of the greatest English cathedrals had roof beams of Irish oak. And during the huge building of Tudor England, timber had been increasingly in demand. Gradually, therefore, the forests of Ireland had yielded to the axe. Most of the best oak trees in the Dublin region had already gone, but farther south there were still plenty of fine old forests waiting to be cut down. And the harvesting of woodlands provided an instant, one-time cash crop that could make a new lease highly profitable for an investor. Sometimes entire hillsides would be stripped in a matter of months.

"I shall let in light," Pincher had declared with feeling, "where before there was darkness."

The track across the hills, he had been told, led past some of the finest views in all Ireland. In a couple of days, it was to be hoped, he would reach his destination spiritually refreshed. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the journey. And although he was conscious of the music outside, he might have slipped into unconsciousness once or twice before, at about midnight, he became aware that the music had finally stopped and he felt ready to sink, at last, into a deep sleep.

Indeed, for a moment he almost supposed he was dreaming when a sudden creak made him sit up with a start, to see that the heavy oak door of the chamber was slowly opening.

There were so many sleeping in the rooms below and the hall that they had left candles flickering all over the house so that people would not fall over each other if they moved about in the night. It was by the light of several candles, therefore, that Pincher could now see, framed in the doorway, the terrible figure who was about to enter his room. A wild Irishman's dress, bare legs, a pale face with staring eyes, and a great, ugly mass of hair falling in ringlets to below his shoulders-faced with such an apparition, it was no surprise that Doctor Pincher should have convulsively clutched at the bedclothes and opened his mouth, ready to cry out "Help" or "Murder" if the creature took another step.

But Tadhg O'Byrne did not enter yet. He stood at the door, preferring to sway a little, cautiously, before committing himself to a further step into the unknown. He was not drunk. He might have been a little while ago, but he was rather in a state where his thoughts and actions, though carefully considered, were somewhat slow. He had tried to sleep on the floor beside the bench in the main hall upon which his wife already lay deeply unconscious. But he could not seem to get comfortable. He had considered going outside. The night was not cold, and a good Irishman like himself, as he was proud to say, would be as happy sleeping on the ground like a cattleman, or a hero from olden times, as lying about in a house. But on balance he had decided to rest inside and, walking carefully over several bodies he had managed, taking his time, to negotiate his way to this place where he had encountered a door. Unable to see the quaking preacher in the darkness, he now very reasonably enquired: "Is there room for a body to sleep in there?"

The question, being asked in Irish, was not understood by Pincher, but clearly some response was required.

"Go away," the philosopher cried.

The reply, in English, surprised Tadhg O'Byrne, but was perfectly understood. He studied it. The first thing about the answer, apart from the language, was that it came only from a single source. He listened for the sounds of others breathing but heard none. Framing his next question in English therefore: "Is it a woman you have with you?" he obligingly asked.

"Certainly not!" hissed Doctor Pincher.

Though he was not trained in philosophy, it was clear to Tadhg, after only another moment or two, that the figure in the dark had, willfully or not, been guilty of a non sequitur. For if there were no others in the room, and the stranger was not engaged with a woman, then, ipso facto ipso facto, there was no need for him to go away. Not wishing to offend, he went over this in his mind again to make sure it was correct; but he could find no weakness in his reasoning. And he had just come to this definite conclusion when Doctor Pincher made a great mistake. Speaking very slowly and clearly, on the assumption that the figure before him must, by its every appearance, be both drunk and stupid, he carefully enunciated: "This . . . is . . . my . . . bed."

"Bed?" This was a new consideration. "Is it a bed you have there?" Tadhg might despise the presumed decadence of his kinsman Brian when it came to feather beds, but at this moment, the prospect of sharing a comfortable bed rather than the hard floor seemed to him a good one. Entering now, and closing the door behind him, he made his way with surprising accuracy to the bed and stretched out his hand to where, shrinking in disgust and some terror from him, Doctor Pincher had inadvertently supplied the very space he was seeking. "There now," he said companionably, "there's room enough for the two of us."

And he would have fallen asleep at once beside the startled preacher if a sudden curiosity had not seized him. Who might this English stranger be who was given a chamber to himself at the wake of O'Byrne of Rathconan?

"A fine man," he opined into the inky darkness. "There's no question, Toirdhealbhach O'Byrne was a fine man." He paused, expecting some response, but the stranger beside him was as silent as the corpse below. "Had you known him long?" he enquired.

"I did not know him at all," said Pincher's voice, coldly.

It was clear to Pincher that his life was not in any immediate danger from this loathsome figure. The main question in his mind was whether to get off the bed and sleep on the hard floor himself, or to remain where he was and endure the closeness, and the smell, of his presence.

"But you came to his wake from respect, no doubt," said Tadhg. English or not, one couldn't deny that this was a proper if unusual thing to do. "Would you mind if I ask your name? Myself being Tadhg O'Byrne," he obligingly supplied.

Why was it, Pincher wondered, that these Irish must have such barbarous names? The sound of them-Tighe O'Byrne beside him, Turlock O'Byrne the corpse below-was bad enough; their spellings, Tadhg and Toirdhealbhach, defied all reason. He placed a silent curse upon them all. He certainly had no wish to engage in conversation with Tadhg; on the other hand, if he refused to reply, it might make the creature angry.

"I am Doctor Simeon Pincher, of Trinity College, Dublin," he said reluctantly.

"Of Trinity College?" An Englishman and a heretic, therefore. But a scholar, perhaps, all the same. "You'd be learned, I dare say," he ventured, "in Latin and Greek?"

"I lecture in Greek," Pincher said firmly, "in logic and in theology. I preach at Christ Church. I am a fellow of Emmanuel College, Cambridge." He hoped this impressive list might reduce his unwelcome companion to silence.

Tadhg might have little use for Englishmen and heretics, but he was impressed. This was a gentleman and a scholar, a learned man who had come all the way from Dublin to pay his respects to a leading O'Byrne. Courtesy was due. He lay there in silence, wondering what he should say to such a distinguished person. And as he did so, a further thought occurred to him. Here was an important man of learning sharing a bed with him, and no doubt imagining that he, Tadhg O'Byrne, was a poor sort of fellow. He owed it to himself to let the stranger know that he, too, was a person of some account. Not his equal in learning, to be sure, but a gentleman like himself at least.

"And you wouldn't know, I don't suppose, who I might be?" he suggested.

"I suppose not," sighed Doctor Pincher.

"Yet it's myself," Tadhg announced proudly, "that is the rightful heir to Rathconan."

The effect of this statement was highly satisfactory. He felt the doctor's body give a small start in the bed.

"But I understood that Brian . . ."

"Ah." Now Tadhg bent to his theme. "He has it. That he has. But has he the right to it?" He paused to let the question establish itself in the surrounding dark. "He has not. It's myself that is in the senior line, you see. His family took it, but they've no right to it. Their claim is false," he ended triumphantly.

The fact that under the very law, that ancient Irish law and custom, which he so ardently defended, Brian's ancestors had been rightfully chosen and his own rejected, the fact that as a good Irishman he had no claim to Brian's position whatever and that any good Irishman would have told him so in no uncertain terms, and the even more astounding fact that it was only under the English law, not the Irish, that the claim of the eldest son had any particular significance-all these facts had miraculously been dissolved in the blackness of the night, or rather, they had been hastily buried underground by Tadhg, like a criminal burying a body.

"So you mean," Pincher sought to clarify, "that Brian O'Byrne does not in fact possess a clear title to this property?"

"He does not. Under English law." He did not like to say it, but he knew that this would be the way to impress a Trinity College man. "Under the king's law, he's no right to it at all. It's myself who is the rightful heir."

"That," said Doctor Pincher, "is very interesting. I think," he added after a short pause, "that I should like to go to sleep."

And Tadhg O'Byrne, having made his point to his own satisfaction, was contented enough to fall into unconsciousness, which he did immediately. But Pincher did not sleep. He had no wish to sleep just yet. Instead, he lay there thinking. The information he had just received, if correct, was highly significant. Not, of course, that the disgusting wretch lying beside him would ever derive any benefit from it. God forbid. But if the kindly young man who had welcomed him to his house had any sort of defective title to the property, there were legal ways in which he might be dispossessed. Pincher wondered if anyone else in Dublin knew about this. Possibly not. The value of an estate like Rathconan would be many times greater than the profits he had in prospect down in Munster, no matter how closely the oak trees grew.

He wondered how he might turn this unexpected news to his advantage.

For some time now, it had seemed to Orlando that his father was out of sorts. He was conscious of these small changes of mood because he saw his father almost every day.

Though he was sixteen, Orlando was still at home. Martin Walsh had quietly resisted the several attempts of Lawrence to have Orlando sent to Salamanca. "No, I'd rather have him with me," he would say. "He can get a fair education from the teachers we have here. I shall teach him the law myself." Once, overhearing an argument between his brother and his father, Orlando had heard his father declare: "Have a care, Lawrence. The government men in Dublin Castle are suspicious of foreign colleges. My loyalty is not in question, but remember that there are men in the Castle who would like to forbid Catholic lawyers to practice. They already know very well that you're a Jesuit. As it's Orlando who will inherit this estate after I am gone, it may be wiser that they don't see him going off to a seminary. It's better they see him safely at my side." Orlando heard Lawrence murmur something in reply, but could not make out the words. He did hear his father answer, very firmly: "I think not. Speak of it no more."