By the time he vested himself in his oratory for the morning Mass, the pain had gone altogether, leaving only a slight numbness, as if he had been lying with the leg doubled under him all night. Was it only a dream, and if so, what was the meaning of it? And where had noctis equi come from? Damn it, he thought, as he began another search through the ruins of a classical education, that’s going to bother hell out of me now. He had long since given up hope of success when he set out on his searches; most of them had to be given up in facetiousness, as now, when he shrugged his shoulders and said, “It’s the celibate’s nightmare,” at which he began to chuckle, “Must tell that to Phil O’Hara.”

The back door slammed and the heavy footsteps of young Gabriel, his Mass server, sounded in the hall, hurrying as usual, for Father Conroy was very strict about starting on time. (There were only two points of his day pinned down – the Mass at 7:30 A.M. and the reading of his Office at 11 P.M. The time between flapped fitfully in each day’s passing.) The boy came into the oratory with a smell of new milk. He ducked on one knee, then wriggled himself onto the prie-dieu, his steel-tipped boots scraping at the floor. He shone all over, cheeks moistly red, hair brilliantined and brushed flat by his mother, who was ever conscious of his privilege in serving the parish priest’s Mass.

Vested and ready to begin, Father Conroy paused to take a squint through the slit of window. “How’s that pony?” he grunted.

“I dunno, Father.”

“Didn’t you take a look at him?”

“No, Father.”

“And you passing right by?”

“I never thought to, Father.” There was no apology there, nor pertness either. It was a reply shot back like a catechism answer.

“You didn’t!” Father Conroy knew as he said it that the sarcasm was wasted, and he launched at once into, “I will go to the altar of God.”

“The God of my gladness and joy,” rang out the boy’s brazen catechism tone.

Between them, they set about the Mass, ping-ponging the responses back and forth in the little oratory, like two cool, sure-handed professionals. As they straightened up from saying the Confiteor, Father Conroy’s glance strayed again toward the window.

“Oh, God, renew Thy life in us.”

“And Thy people will rejoice in Thee.”

Strange I can’t see the pony from here, he was thinking; maybe he’s lying in the shelter of the hedge. Suppose he’s dead, or, better still, stolen – wouldn’t that be a way out? Or would it? Drewitt might demand the price of him. That would be awkward, especially with a Protestant involved – just the sort of thing that might reach the Bishop’s ears. But supposing...

There was a silence in the oratory.