And then it hit him, what had happened last night. At first he shook his head. No, he had dreamed it, he couldn’t have broken down – why would he do such a thing? In Farrell’s house, my God, Farrell of all people? But as he drew the cincture tight about him, he knew that he had, yes, that he had broken down and cried like a baby.

He took up the chasuble and stood with it in his hands, about to drop it over his shoulders, to enclose himself in its black folds. Why, though? Why had it happened? What word or look had split the rock, made the waters flow? Name of God, what could have happened to him?

A whinny came from the outhouse in the yard below. That curse-of-God pony! Quickly he dropped the chasuble over his shoulders and reached for the tapes to tie it at his sides. Of course, the pony! Farrell had been shouting about it, telling him Drewitt was making threats, that there was going to be a stink. Yes, that was it. No wonder he had been upset last night – what business was it of Farrell’s?

I’ll give the bloody animal back to Drewitt, that’s what I’ll do. Get it out of the place, out of my mind. I haven’t had a day’s rest since it came, awake or asleep. As soon as Mass is over, I’ll call on Drewitt and tell him to take it away. Or should I call? Wouldn’t it be better to send a message, to send Gabriel? Yes, it would be more dignified. I might be tempted to give him a punch, shut his big gob for him.

But where was Gabriel? The little brat was late. And supposing Drewitt didn’t really want the pony, after all? That was quite on the cards. Maybe I should go myself and find out how the land lies – make a deal, if there’s a deal to be made.

The argument went on as he waited for Gabriel. To go or not to go? He saw to the cruet (Gabriel’s job), filled one of the little jugs with wine from the bottle in the cupboard, went down to the tap to fill the other with water. As he turned on the tap, he heard the chapel bell go clang, clang, clang. What could it be? He stood listening to the panicky sound that made feet quicken in the last rush up the hill to the chapel. Christ, could it be Sunday? He rushed to the window and, sure enough, saw the bicycles stacked at the church gate, the men going in the door, and Gabriel in his white surplice, tugging on the rope. For the first time in his life he had forgotten Sunday Mass for his people.

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