Whilst the rescuing party halted, and wiped the perspiration from their brows, one said, half apologetically:—
"I am axed by these gintlemin to tell ye—ahem! that there's a rule in this village that no credit is given, from the price of an ounce of tay to a pound of tobakky. An' if ye'd be so plasin' as to remimber that poun' note ye promised, an' if it is convanient and contagious to ye, perhaps—"
One of the bailiffs fumbled at his pockets in his critical condition, and making a round ball of the note, he flung it up the cliff side with a gesture of disgust. Jem Deady took up the missive, opened it calmly, studied the numbers, and put it in his pocket.
"Now, byes, a long pull, a sthrong pull, and a pull thegither!"
And in an instant the bailiffs were sprawling on the green turf. Such cheers, such congratulations, such slapping on the back, such hip! hip! hurrahs! were never heard before. Then the procession formed and passed on to the village; and to the melodious strains of "God save Ireland!" the bailiffs were conducted to Father Letheby's house. Lizzie, half crying, half laughing with delight for having escaped arrest and capital punishment, prepared dinner with alacrity; and then a great hush fell on the village—the hush of conjecture and surmise. Would the bailiffs remain or depart? Would they recognize the deep hatred of the villagers under all the chaff and fun, or would they take it as a huge joke? The same questioning agitated their own minds; but they decided to go for two reasons, viz., (1) that, fresh from the conflict, they could give a more lurid description of their adventure, and obtain larger compensation; and (2) that whilst Jem Deady was scraping, with no gentle hand, the oil and lampblack from their faces, that he had placed there the evening before, he told them, confidentially, to put a hundred miles between themselves and the villagers that night, if they did not care to leave their measures for a coffin. And so, at six o'clock a car was hired, and amidst a farewell volley of sarcastic cheers and uncomplimentary epithets, they drove to catch the night-mail to Dublin. Father Letheby promptly took possession, and found nothing wrong, except the odor of some stale tobacco smoke.
Next day was All Souls', and it was with whitened lips, and with disappointment writ in every one of his fine features, that he came up after Mass to ask had I received any letter. Alas, no! He had pinned his faith, in his own generous, child-like way, to Alice's prophecy, and the Holy Souls had failed him. I went down to see Alice. She looked at me inquiringly.
"No letter, and no reprieve," I said. "You false prophetess, you child of Mahomet, what did you mean by deceiving us?"
She was crying softly.
"Nevertheless," she said at length, "it will come true. The Holy Souls will never fail him. The day is not past, nor the morrow."