A man with a reaping-hook bound in a hay rope happened to be passing, to whom he addressed himself.
“Can you tell me where the church is?”
“Yis, yer honor; troth, thin, I can.”
“Where is it, please?”
“Av it’s Mass ye want, Father Maurice is beyant at Moynalty Castle.”
“I merely want to see it.”
“An’ shure ye can, sir; it’s open day an’ night.”
“But where is it, my man?”
“Where is it? Right foreninst ye, thin. Don’t ye see the holy and blessed crass over the doore?”
The chapel was a small, low, cruciform building, very dingy despite its whitewash, and very tumble-down-looking. It was surrounded by a small grass-plat and a few stunted pines. A rude cross with a real crown of thorns stood in one corner, at the foot of which knelt an old man, bare-headed, engaged in repeating the rosary aloud, and two women, who were rocking themselves to and fro in a fervor of prayer. Within the church the fittings were of the most primitive description. The floor was unboarded, save close to the altar-rails; a few forms were scattered here and there, and one row of backed seats occupied a space to the right. The altar, approached by a single step, was of wood, a golden cross ornamenting the front panel, and a series of gilded Gothic arches forming its background, while the tabernacle consisted of a rudely-cut imitation of a dome-covered mosque. A picture of the Crucifixion hung over the altar suspended from the ceiling, and, as this was regarded as a masterpiece of art by the inhabitants of Monamullin from time immemorial, we will not discuss their æstheticism here. The Stations of the Cross were represented by small colored engravings in mahogany frames, and the holy-water font consisted of a huge boulder of granite which had a large hole scooped out of it.