Whereupon the coroner smiled with a large dignity, and answered, "I know it, woman."
"When did this happen?" said Mona.
"Not an hour ago; I am straight from Peeltown this minute."
And without more words the coroner turned his back on her, and was gone in an instant.
When Quayle had left the room Kerry lifted both hands; her blind face wore a curious expression of mingled pride and fear. "It is the gift," she said, in an awesome whisper.
Mona stood a while in silence and perplexity, and then she said, in tremulous voice, "Kerry, don't think me among those that scoff, but tell me over again, my good Kerry, and forgive me."
And Kerry told the story of her vision afresh, and Mona now listened with eager attention, and interrupted with frequent questions.
"Who where the four men and the boy? Never saw their faces before? Never? Not in the street? No? Never heard their voices? Ah, surely you remember their voices? Yes, yes, try to recall them; try, try, my good Kerry. Ah! the fishermen—they were the voices of the fishermen! How were you so long in remembering? Quilleash? Yes, old Billy. And Crennell? Yes, and Teare and Corkell, and the boy Davy Fayle? Poor young Davy, he was one of them? Yes? Oh, you dear, good Kerry!"
Mona's impassibility was gone, and her questions, like her breath, came hot and fast.
"And now tell me what place they took him to. The mountains? Yes, but where? Never saw the place before in all your life? Why, no, of course not; how could you, Kerry? Ah, don't mind what I say and don't be angry. But what kind of place? Quick, Kerry, quick."