IV
At seven o'clock that day the darkness had closed in. A bright turf fire burned in a room in Bishop's Court, and the Bishop sat before it with his slippered feet on a sheepskin rug. His face was mellower than of old, and showed less of strength and more of sadness. Mona stood at a tea-table by his side, cutting slices of bread and butter.
A white face, with eyes of fear, looked in at the dark window. It was Davy Fayle. He was but little older to look upon for the seven years that had gone heavily over his troubled head. His simple look was as vacant and his lagging lip hung as low; but his sluggish intellect had that night become suddenly charged with a ready man's swiftness.
Mona went to the door. "Come in," she said; but Davy would not come. He must speak with her outside, and she went out to him.
He was trembling visibly.
"What is it?" she said.
"Mistress Mona," said Davy, in a voice of great emotion, "it's as true as the living God."
"What?" she said.
"He's alive—ould Kerry said true—he's alive, and coming back."
Mona glanced into his face by the dull light that came through the window. His eyes, usually dull and vacant, were aflame with a strange fire. She laid one hand on the door-jamb, and said, catching her breath, "Davy, remember what the men said long ago—that they saw him lying in the snow."