Martin Cosgrave turned away from the gate.  He walked down where the shadow of the mearing was faint upon the road.  He turned up the boreen closed in by the still hedges.  He stumbled over the ruts.  He stood at the cabin door and looked up at the sky with soulless eyes.  The animation, the inspiration, that had vivified his face since the building had been begun had died.  The face no longer expressed the idealist, the visionary.  His eyes swept the sky for a purpose.  It was the look of the man of the fields, the man who had thought for his crops, who was near to the soil.

He had not looked a final and anxious, a peasant look, at the sky from his cabin-door in the night since he had embarked upon the building.  He was conscious of that fact after a little.  He wondered if it was a vague stirring in his heart that made him do it, a vague craving for the old companionship of the fields this night of bitterness.  They were the fields, the sod, the territory of his forefathers, the inheritance of his blood.  Who was he that he should put up a great building on the hill?  What if he had risen for a little on his wings above the common flock?

The night air was heavy with the scent of the late dry harvest and all that the late dry harvest meant to the man nurtured on the side of a wet hill.  The sheaves of corn were stooked in his neighbour’s fields.  Yesterday he had sacrificed the land to the building; to-morrow he would sacrifice the building to the land.  Martin Cosgrave knew, the stars seemed to know, that a message, a voice, a command, would come like a wave through the generations of his blood sweeping him back to a common tradition.  The cry for service on the land was beginning to stir somewhere.  It would come to him in a word, a word sanctified upon the land by the memory of a thousand sacrifices and a thousand struggles, the only word that held magic for his race, the one word—­Redemption!  He looked up at the building, made a vague motion of his hand that was like an act of renunciation, and laughed a laugh of terrible bitterness.

“Look,” he cried, “at the building Martin Cosgrave put up on the hill!”

He moved to the cabin-door, his feet heavy upon the uneven ground as the feet of any of the generations of men who had ever gone that way before.  He pressed the cabin-door with his fist.  With a groan it went back shakily over the worn stone threshold, sticking when it was only a little way open.  All was quiet, black, damp, terrible as chaos, inside.  Martin Cosgrave hitched forward his left shoulder, went in sideways, and closed the crazy door against the pale world of moonlight outside.