The resident magistrate toyed dubiously with his revolver, casting sharp glances of scrutiny from one to the other of the faces before him, the while he pondered the probabilities of truth in the curious tale to which he had listened. The official side of him clamored for its entire rejection as a lie. Like most of his class, with their superficial and hostile observation of an alien race, his instincts were all against crediting anything which any Irish peasant told him, to begin with. Furthermore, the half of this strange story had been related by an Irish-American--a type regarded by the official mind in Ireland with a peculiar intensity of suspicion. Yes, he decided, it was all a falsehood. Then he looked into the young man’s face once more, and wavered. It seemed an honest face. If its owner had borne even the homeliest and most plebeian of Saxon labels, the major was conscious that he should have liked him. The Milesian name carried prejudice, it was true, but-- “Yes, we will go up,” he said, “in the manner I described. I don’t see what your object would be in inventing this long rigmarole. Of course, you can see that if it isn’t true, it will be so much the worse for you.” “We ought to see it by this time,” said Bernard, with a suggestion of weariness. “You’ve mentioned it often enough. Here, take the lantern. We’ll go up ahead. The door locks itself. I have the key.” The three men made their way up the dark, tortuous flight of stairs, replaced the lantern and key on their peg in Jerry’s room, and emerged once more into the open. They filled their lungs with long breaths of the fresh air, and then looked rather vacuously at one another. The major had pocketed his weapon. “Well, what’s the programme?” asked Bernard. Before any answer came, their attention was attracted by the figure of a stranger, sauntering about among the ancient stones and black wooden crosses scattered over the weed-grown expanse of the churchyard. He was engaged in deciphering the names on the least weather-beaten of these crosses, but only in a cursory way and with long intermittent glances over the prospect of ivy-grown ruins and gray walls, turrets and gables beyond. As they watched him, he seemed suddenly to become aware of their presence. Forthwith he turned and strolled toward them. As he advanced, they saw that he was a tall and slender man, whose close-cut hair and short mustache and chin tuft produced an effect of extreme whiteness against a notably tanned and sun-burnt skin. Though evidently well along in years, he walked erect and with an elastic and springing step. He wore black clothes of foreign, albeit genteel aspect. The major noted on the lapel of his coat a tell-tale gleam of red ribbon--and even before that had guessed him to be a Frenchman and a soldier. He leaped swiftly to the further assumption that this was The O’Mahony, and then hesitated, as Jerry showed no sign of recognition.