—­Ringabella and Crosshaven, a voice replied groping for foothold.

—­Hello, Jack, is that yourself?  Ned Lambert said, raising in salute his pliant lath among the flickering arches.  Come on.  Mind your steps there.

The vesta in the clergyman’s uplifted hand consumed itself in a long soft flame and was let fall.  At their feet its red speck died:  and mouldy air closed round them.

—­How interesting! a refined accent said in the gloom.

—­Yes, sir, Ned Lambert said heartily.  We are standing in the historic council chamber of saint Mary’s abbey where silken Thomas proclaimed himself a rebel in 1534.  This is the most historic spot in all Dublin.  O’Madden Burke is going to write something about it one of these days.  The old bank of Ireland was over the way till the time of the union and the original jews’ temple was here too before they built their synagogue over in Adelaide road.  You were never here before, Jack, were you?

—­No, Ned.

—­He rode down through Dame walk, the refined accent said, if my memory serves me.  The mansion of the Kildares was in Thomas court.

—­That’s right, Ned Lambert said.  That’s quite right, sir.

—­If you will be so kind then, the clergyman said, the next time to allow me perhaps ...

—­Certainly, Ned Lambert said.  Bring the camera whenever you like.  I’ll get those bags cleared away from the windows.  You can take it from here or from here.

In the still faint light he moved about, tapping with his lath the piled seedbags and points of vantage on the floor.

From a long face a beard and gaze hung on a chessboard.

—­I’m deeply obliged, Mr Lambert, the clergyman said.  I won’t trespass on your valuable time ...

—­You’re welcome, sir, Ned Lambert said.  Drop in whenever you like.  Next week, say.  Can you see?

—­Yes, yes.  Good afternoon, Mr Lambert.  Very pleased to have met you.

—­Pleasure is mine, sir, Ned Lambert answered.

He followed his guest to the outlet and then whirled his lath away among the pillars.  With J. J. O’Molloy he came forth slowly into Mary’s abbey where draymen were loading floats with sacks of carob and palmnut meal, O’Connor, Wexford.

He stood to read the card in his hand.

—­The reverend Hugh C. Love, Rathcoffey.  Present address:  Saint Michael’s, Sallins.  Nice young chap he is.  He’s writing a book about the Fitzgeralds he told me.  He’s well up in history, faith.

The young woman with slow care detached from her light skirt a clinging twig.

—­I thought you were at a new gunpowder plot, J. J. O’Molloy said.

Ned Lambert cracked his fingers in the air.

—­God! he cried.  I forgot to tell him that one about the earl of Kildare after he set fire to Cashel cathedral.  You know that one?  I’m bloody sorry I did it, says he, but I declare to god I thought the archbishop was inside.  He mightn’t like it, though.  What?  God, I’ll tell him anyhow.  That was the great earl, the Fitzgerald Mor.  Hot members they were all of them, the Geraldines.