The Lord of Dunbeekin crossed himself, and, kneeling on the wet sand, kissed the ring of his Bishop.
Slowly, as he rose to his feet, the sunken head was lifted, and he saw in the frame of the hood a mask of pallid, lifeless flesh, bloated beyond human semblance. He shuddered as he gazed, and found two strenuous eyes peering into his out of this monstrous visage.
"Such as my poor Dunbeekin is, my lord," he said, wonderingly, "it puts itself with pride under your feet."
"Its name shall be exalted above all others," said the Bishop. The voice came steady and clear-toned, as if informed by a spirit which carnal decay could not shake. "It is privileged to hold for a night the most priceless and inestimable of earth's treasures—the piece of the True Cross which I bear in my unworthy hands." He pushed the casket forward into the moonlight.
Turlogh knelt again, and with him every man on the strand.
The priests in the Bishop's train gave the signal for rising. They looked up toward the keep, where passing lights in the windows bespoke a flutter of preparation. They yawned and moved their feet, like weary men impatient for food and sleep. Turlogh placed himself by the side of the litter-men, still bearing the Bishop in their arms, and with them led the way.
"Some small affection of the blood," said the Bishop, as he was borne along up the path, "distorts and enfeebles my members for the moment. When I have placed this holy relic fittingly upon my high altar in Rosscarbery, and given orders for a shrine for it to my chief builders and artificers, I will make a penitential journey to St. Declan's, in sainted Ardmore, and drink from his well, and with his blessed intercession I shall come forth cleansed and whole."
