"You would not touch it if you knew what it was," he whispered.
"What?" said Father Letheby.
"Do you remember old Simmons, the pinsioner, down at Lougheagle?"
"Who destroyed himself?"
"Yes! he hanged himself to a rafter in the barn."
"I remember having heard of it."
"He hanged himself with a rope."
"I presume so."
"Your reverence has the rope in your pocket."
The priest stepped back as if stung. The thing was so horrible that he lost his self-possession. Then a great flood of anger swept his soul; and taking the hideous instrument from his pocket, he passed over to the open hearth; with one or two turns of the wheel, that answers the purpose of a bellows in Ireland, he kindled the smouldering ashes into flame, buried the rope deep down in the glowing cinders, and watched it curl into a white ash, that bent and writhed like a serpent in pain. The old woman told her beads, and then blessed the priest, with, however, a tremor of nervous fear in her voice. The young man lifted his hat, as the priest, without a word, passed into the darkness.