“Women, Skipper Tommy?” said I, puzzled. “An’, pray, who is they?”
“Mothers,” he answered. “Just mothers.”
“What they doin’ at the gate? No, no! They’re not there. Sure, they’re playin’ harps at the foot o’ the throne.”
“No,” said he, positively; “they’re at the gate.”
“What they doin’ there?”
“Waitin’.”
We were now come to the crest of a hill; and the sea was spread before us—breaking angrily under the low, black sky.
“What’s they waitin’ for?” I asked.
“Davy, lad,” he answered, impressively, “they’re waitin’ for them they bore. That’s what they’re waitin’ for.”
“For their sons?”