The angels were treading at the rear of the cart talking among themselves; the slow drone of their voices drifted up the road, and from this murmuring the words God and Beauty and Love would detach themselves and sing recurringly on the air like incantations.
Eileen Ni Cooley trod on the left side of the ass. She trod like a featureless shade; her shawl wrapped blottingly about her face and her mind moving within herself and for herself.
Mac Cann and his daughter went together by the right side of the donkey, and, as he looked constantly at his daughter, his eyes were furtive and cunning.
He tapped her elbow.
"Mary," he whispered, "I want to talk to you."
She replied in a voice that was low from his contact.
"I want to talk to yourself," said she.
"What do you want to say?"
"I want to know where you got the money that I saw in your hand when you buried the man?"
"That's what I'm going to tell you about," he whispered. "Be listening to me now and don't make any noise."