When he came in again, she had spread a cloth on the end of the table. Bacon and eggs were spluttering in a shallow pan on the hearth, a pot of porridge was ready for him, the kettle steaming.
Conal's face was sombre; it was easy to see that he had not slept and that his mind was set to a plan of action. He ate without speaking, and got up to go.
Ginger was standing saddled by the door, her reins trailing beside her. She cropped the young grass that showed vivid green blades about the water barrel, and was nourished by the drips from the roof spouts and leakages from the barrel itself. Deirdre heard the click, click of Ginger's snaffle, the chirping of young birds under the roof, while Conal was eating. There was a solemnity, a wrapped-up purposefulness about him this morning; she dared not ask him what he was going to do.
It was a fresh morning with frost in the air. A sparkling rime lay out on the grass in the paddocks and spread under the straggling shade of the sheds and the stables in crisp white patches. The sunshine splashed golden over the hills; it lay in long shafts of purest brilliance on the paddocks and across the stable yard.
Conal went out of doors; Deirdre followed him.
"Conal," she cried.
There was appeal in her voice.
He had gathered Ginger's reins in his hand. The mare turned her head, her great beautiful eyes on Deirdre.
"It's no good you're saying anything, Deirdre, telling me what to do and what not to do," Conal said roughly.
"I've thought it all out. I know what's got to be done. I'll do it the best way I can."