"This is a letter from Father Moran. The Bishop wishes to see me.
We will continue the conversation to-morrow. It is eight miles to
Rathowen, and how much further is the Palace?"
"A good seven," said the inspector. "You're not going to walk it,
your reverence?"
"Why not? In four hours I shall be there." He looked at his boots
first, and hoped they would hold together; and then he looked at
the sky, and hoped it would not rain.
The sky was dim; all the light seemed to be upon the earth; a
soft, vague sunlight floated over the bog. Now and again a yellow-
hammer rose above the tufts of coarse grass and flew a little way.
A line of pearl-coloured mountains showed above the low horizon,
and he had walked eight miles before he saw a pine-wood. Some
hundred yards further on there was a green field, but under the
green sod there was peat, and a man and a boy were cutting it. The
heather appeared again, and he had walked ten miles before he was
clear of whins and heather.
He walked on, thinking of his interview with the Bishop, and was
nearly at the end of his journey when he noticed that one of his
shoes had come unsewn, and he stopped at a cabin; and while the
woman was looking for a needle and thread he mopped his face with
a great red handkerchief that he kept in the pocket of his
threadbare coat--a coat that had once been black, but had grown
green with age and weather. He had out-walked himself, and feeling
he would be tired, and not well able to answer the points that the
Bishop would raise, he decided to rest awhile.
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