The blood stopped indeed. But "Chamarroo as clagh," said the old man, looking up: as dead as a stone.
Danny stood and looked on in silence. His spirit seemed to be gone, as though it could awake to life again only in another world.
When death was certain the men began to mourn over Kisseck, and recount their memories concerning him.
"Well, Bill's cruise is up, poor fellow; and a rael good skipper anyway."
"Poor Bill! What's that it's sayin'?—'He who makes a ditch for another may fall into it himself.'"
None spoke to Danny. A kind of awe fell on them in their dealings with the lad. They let him alone. It was as if he had been the instrument in greater hands.
"He hadn't a lazy bone in him, hadn't Bill. Aw, well, God will be aisy on the poor chap."
"You have to summer and winter a man before you know him. And leave it to me to know Kisseck. I've shared work, shared meat with him this many a year."
"And a fine big chap, and as straight as the backbone of a herring. Aw, well, well, well."
"Still, for sure, Bill made a man toe the mark. I'm thinking, poor chap, he's got summat to answer for anyway. Well, well, every man must go to the mill with his own sack."
Then they compared memories of how the dead man had foreseen his end. One remembered that Kisseck had said he knew he should not die in his bed. Another recalled the fact that on Good Friday morning Kisseck struck the griddle that hung in the ingle and tumbled it into the fire. This tangible warning of approaching
