‘I only know that the priest killed Seaghan.  Is there any more of it?’

‘Yes, there is more.’

And Father Oliver went on to tell it, though he did not feel that Father Moran would be interested in the legend; he would not believe that it had been prophesied that an ash-tree should grow out of the buried head, and that one of the branches should take root and pierce Seaghan’s heart.  And he was right in suspecting his curate’s lack of sympathy.  Father Moran at once objected that the ash-tree had not yet sent down a branch to pierce the priest-killer’s heart.

’Not yet; but this branch nearly touches the ground, and there’s no saying that it won’t take root in a few years.’

‘But his heart is there no longer.’

‘Well, no,’ said Father Oliver, ’it isn’t; but if one is to argue that way, no one would listen to a story at all.’

Father Moran held his peace for a little while, and then he began talking about the penal times, telling how religion in Ireland was another form of love of country, and that, if Catholics were intolerant to every form of heresy, it was because they instinctively felt that the questioning of any dogma would mean some slight subsidence from the idea of nationality that held the people together.  Like the ancient Jews, the Irish believed that the faith of their forefathers could bring them into their ultimate inheritance; this was why a proselytizer was hated so intensely.

‘More opinions,’ Father Oliver said to himself.  ’I wonder he can’t admire that ash-tree, and be interested in the story, which is quaint and interesting, without trying to draw an historical parallel between the Irish and the Jews.  Anyhow, thinking is better than drinking,’ and he jumped on his car.  The last thing he heard was Moran’s voice saying, ‘He who betrays his religion betrays his country.’

’Confound the fellow, bothering me with his preaching on this fine summer’s day!  Much better if he did what he was told, and made up his mind to put the small green slates on the abbey, and not those coarse blue things which will make the abbey look like a common barn.’

Then, shading his eyes with his hand, he peered through the sun haze, following the shapes of the fields.  The corn was six inches high, and the potatoes were coming into blossom.  True, there had been a scarcity of water, but they had had a good summer, thanks be to God, and he thought he had never seen the country looking so beautiful.  And he loved this country, this poor Western plain with shapely mountains enclosing the horizon.  Ponies were feeding between the whins, and they raised their shaggy heads to watch the car passing.  In the distance cattle were grazing, whisking the flies away.  How beautiful was everything—­the white clouds hanging in the blue sky, and the trees!  There were some trees, but not many—­only a few pines.  He caught glimpses of the lake through the stems; tears rose to his eyes, and he attributed his happiness to his native land and to the thought that he was living in it.  Only a few days ago he wished to leave it—­no, not for ever, but for a time; and as his old car jogged through the ruts he wondered how it was that he had ever wished to leave Ireland, even for a single minute.