He shook his head, relieved to think of it as “they.” No, they could hardly have seen him under the thorn tree, but he wished now that they had. Why hadn’t he called out, stopped them, demanded to know their business? Why was he shaking? Was he afraid? “Who are they?” he asked.

“I don’t know, Father.”

“But you saw them when they came.”

“Yes, Father.” The young man remounted and rode on ahead. “You wouldn’t know them.”

Lamplight spilled out through the open doorway of the cottage. A little girl stood there, her red hair tangled about her face. She had one hand on the doorpost, and she was peering in, afraid to enter. So absorbed was she that she did not notice their approach until they flung their bicycles against the wall. She looked around, staring out toward them, into the darkness. She backed away, then suddenly turned and disappeared into the room. When they entered, the top of her head showed just above the overturned kitchen table.

The floor was strewn with broken delph. Only one cup still hung on the dresser, where the flame of the oil lamp fluttered, unsheltered by a globe. A pool of milk lay on the stone floor.

Father Conroy hurried around the table to where a woman was kneeling. She looked up at him with terror in her face. Beside her a man lay, half on his side, his face to the floor. His back was bare, and his trousers hung loosely about his buttocks. Thin lines of blood ran this way and that across his back. The pool of milk, where it had spread this far, was tinged with red.

The woman began to scream. He didn’t know what to do, but stood before her, helplessly staring down at her open mouth. It was the young man who lifted her to her feet and half-led, half-carried her into the other room.

Father Conroy knelt beside the man, not wanting to put his hand out, but at last he reached out and pushed the man over on his back. The trousers were soaking wet. He watched the eyes for a moment, then put his hand on the cold, sweaty skin of the chest. The heart was still beating.

The young man had come back and was looking at him, waiting for directions. He could think of nothing to say. It was the young man himself who went and brought back a blanket. Then Father Conroy thought of the act of contrition and bent down to whisper the words in the man’s ear.