“Lord God, what a powerful morning,” said Father Conroy.

And it lasted; it lasted them nearly all day.

They drove away fast, making their getaway. As they crossed the parish boundary, Father Conroy eased his legs forward and reached in his pocket for his pipe. He looked straight ahead as he smoked, for once under no obligation to amuse; he was slowing down to O’Hara’s pace of living, which made no demands, but accepted as conversation any reasonable silences.

The setter bitch stood on the back seat, head upreared between them. Around her drifted the smoke from the two pipes, puffed lazily, as from chimneys on a day without wind. She stared ahead through it, undisturbed by it, still panting slightly, tongue lolling. She was well aware of her importance to the expedition and of her ability to make it a success.

They put a good distance between themselves and Kilbride and found themselves at last on one of the hills overlooking the parish of Rosnagree. They parked the car by the roadside. While Father Conroy pulled on a pair of Wellington boots he found in the trunk, Father O’Hara got out and relieved himself against a low brier hedge.

“Isn’t that a fine parish?” he declared as he slowly buttoned his fly. “No man could ask for better.”

“I was born here,” said Father Conroy, still busy with his boots.

“Oh, yes, of course you were. You know it all, so.” And, as if this completed his satisfaction, Father O’Hara moved ponderously to get out the guns.

They set off, at last, heading along the brow of the hill.

The dog ran back and forth along the hedge and then broke through into the field beyond. They gave her her head for the first few fields, and she careered away in front of them, distracted by the wealth of scents and unable to settle to anyone. The day was still cold; the breeze had freshened from the northeast, and small white clouds moved across the pale blue sky, now and then obscuring the sun. Shadows went flying across the countryside below. The men blew into their hands as they walked; when they crossed a stubble field, the straws snapped underfoot like twigs. The earth was frozen so solid that their heels seemed to ring on it.

The dog coursed a little ahead of them, stopping briefly with paw upraised, then continuing her search along the headlands of the fields. Sometimes cattle followed her close, moving in little rushes, their stupid bullock heads breathing out resentful, steamy clouds at her heels. She moved on unaware of them, blind to everything but the scent she had chosen to follow.