who am the May-fly, and this is my one little morning in the world."
Where Rosscarbery had been, Turlogh and his people traced through choked paths and streets blocked with stones of broken houses the place of the cathedral. They moved about among its blackened ruins, and lifting great blocks of masonry from the site of the high altar, dug there a grave and shaped a rude coffin of large stones, and laid Laurence, son of Ivar, to his rest. They knelt uncovered while the chaplain said the funeral mass; and the singing priests chanted, and the elder women raised their voices in the last wail over the grave.
Then Turlogh gave a sign to his people, and going out, led in his own horse over the tumbled debris of the shattered transept. He drew his sword, and the animal fell with a pierced throat upon the place where they had buried the Bishop. The men of Dunbeekin brought forward the other horses, neighing in their fright, and slew them one by one; and the cattle, driven in and leaping wildly in terror over the despoiled floors, were beaten down with the war-axes, and piled, smoking, on the high altar. At Turlogh's command, the jewels and fine cloths and books they had brought were heaped here too, and with his own hand he struck a flame and set them alight. The smoke curled thickly outward, and forced the Chieftain back. He led the way forth to the open air. In the space beyond the west front he came upon a line of English drawn close to bar his passage. Over his shoulders he saw other lines guarding the sides against escape. His eye sought out the captain, and he moved toward him.
"There will be a price on my head?" he asked, calmly—"on me, Turlogh, son of Fineen, Lord in Dunbeekin?"
The other shook his head.
"You flatter yourself," he said. "You were not accounted of
