die, and never seeing the ruin about him, never learning that his cathedral was destroyed, his palace in ashes, his Vicar-General hanged in the Bandon forest, his priests and people dispersed. It was all very strange and troubling to the mind.
After mid-day Turlogh went again, and the priests brought him into the presence of the Bishop. Their faces had taken on a new fright, and they spoke in scared whispers as they moved along beside him.
"We know not how to tell him," they said. "He does be dying, and he will not listen. His confessor strove to speak to him of his end, but he drove him out with harsh words. At any hour the change may fall like a stroke upon him, and he not prepared! The crime of it would be testing like a mountain on our souls."
Turlogh would not promise to speak, but when he stood alone before Laurence, son of Ivar, who still sat bolstered in his chair, still with the jewelled casket on his shapeless knees, the courage came to him.
"My lord," he said, "you are not better. My physician has no more than laid an eye on you, yet shakes his head and speaks gravely. Will you not be having your chaplain come to you?"
The Bishop lifted his eyes, and they gazed sharply forth from the dulled, misshapen visage at his host. Minutes of silence passed thus.
"These frocked cowards of mine," he said at last, "they will have prompted you to this."
"They see what all see," replied the other. "It is high time for you to take thought of your peace with God, and gain your victory for the example of lesser people."
The Bishop's scrutiny of his kinsman's face was not relaxed, but the little eyes seemed to twinkle now, and a fugitive smile passed over the shaven, bloated jowl.
