“Is that you, Norah?” he asked, knowing well that it was she, and as he spoke he took her into his arms and kissed her. To Norah there was something dreadful in this kiss, and while not knowing that it gave expression to the pent-up passion of the man, she felt nervous and afraid. She looked back to the shed, saw the faces round the gaming-table, old Maire knitting in the corner, her needles showing brightly as the firelight played on them. A disused cart-wheel hung from the wall; she had never noticed it before.... Here in the dark beyond the circle of light something terrible threatened her, something that she could not comprehend but which her beating heart told her was wrong, and should be avoided. Why should she be afraid? Norah had all the boldness of innocence: her virtue was not armed with that knowledge which makes it weigh its every action carefully. Morrison was speaking, asking her to come further out into the darkness, but she still kept her eyes fixed on the shed. Safety lay there; freedom from what she could not comprehend. The man had hold of her hands, pressing them tightly, entreating her to do something. She freed herself from his grasp and ran back to the shed, half glad that the whole incident had taken place, and more than a little desirous to go out again. Her love for the well-dressed youth imparted a recklessness to her timid nature. When she went to her sleeping quarters two hours later old Maire a Glan accompanied her. The gamblers were still playing, the fire blazed merrily, and Ginger Dubbin held the bank and was winning heavily.
“What’s that, that’s shinin’ in front of us?” asked Maire a Glan as she came out. “Maybe it’s only seein’ things that I am, for me old eyes play tricks in the darkness.”
“It looks like a live spark lyin’ on the ground,” said Norah.
“That’s not on the cold ground,” answered the woman. “See, it’s movin’! It’ll be the farmer’s son with the gold ring on his finger. Now what will he be after waitin’ for there?”
“How am I to know?” said Norah, but in such a low voice that the old woman had to draw near to catch the words. “I’m sleepy,” she said after a pause; “it’s time we were in bed.”
II
ON the morning of the day following, the squad prepared for their departure, and gathered up all their spare clothes, their pans and porringers, and packed them in woollen handkerchiefs and tin boxes. The blankets, eighteen in all, were tied up in a parcel, ready to be sent off to the merchant in town.
“God knows who’ll sleep in them next year!” said Willie the Duck in a pathetic voice, and everybody laughed, some because they enjoyed the remark and others because it was the correct thing to laugh at every word uttered by Willie the Duck.
Dermod Flynn watched the preparations with impassive face. He was not going home; in fact, he had not as much money in his possession as would pay the railway fare to the nearest town. All his wages had been lost on the gaming-table; he had nothing now to rely on but the labour of his own hands and the chance of getting a job.
“What will ye do, Dermod?” Maire a Glan asked.