‘Alive!’ he gasped. ‘Moya Macartney alive!’
‘Yes, sure,’ said Desmond, ‘and in a little while she’ll be here, in Ireland.’
Kilpatrick sank into a seat, and sat trembling like a man ague-struck.
‘In fact,’ said Desmond, ‘she is in Ireland already, and on her way here.’
The old man sprang to his feet.
‘She is here—she is in the house!’
Desmond walked to the ante-room door, and made a sign. Moya advanced into the library, and let slip the shawl from her face.
‘God of Heaven!’ cried Kilpatrick, falling to his knees. ‘Moya!’
She stood still, looking down on him, the broad light falling on her wrinkled face and whitening hair. Kilpatrick bent his head beneath her gaze, an awful sob broke from his throat. Desmond closed the door, leaving them together: the meeting was too sacred to be witnessed even by him.