Chapter 3

           TheroadtoDroghedabroughtbacknomemoriesofhisyouth,thoughtFatherRalphdeBricassart,eyeshalfshutagainsttheglareashisnewDaimlerbouncedalongintheruttedwheeltracksthatmarchedthroughthelongsilvergrass.NolovelymistygreenIreland,this.AndDrogheda?Nobattlefield,nohighseatofpower.Orwasthatstrictlytrue?Betterdisciplinedthesedaysbutacuteasever,hissenseofhumorconjuredinhismindanimageofaCromwellianMaryCarsondealingoutherparticularbrandofimperialmalevolence.Notsuchahighflowncomparison,either;theladysurelywieldedasmuchpowerandcontrolledasmanyindividualsasanypuissantwarlordofelderdays.

           Thelastgateloomedupthroughastandofboxandstringybark;thecarcametoathrobbinghalt.Clappingadisreputablegreybroad-brimmedhatonhisheadtowardoffthesun,FatherRalphgotout,ploddedtothesteelboltonthewoodenstrut,pulleditbackandflungthegateopenwithwearyimpatience.Thereweretwenty-sevengatesbetweenthepresbyteryinGillanboneandDroghedahomestead,eachonemeaninghehadtostop,getoutofthecar,openthegate,getintothecaranddriveitthrough,stop,getout,gobacktoclosethegate,thengetinthecaragainandproceedtothenextone.Manyandmanyatimehelongedtodispensewithatleasthalftheritual,scootondownthetrackleavingthegatesopenlikeaseriesofastonishedmouthsbehindhim;buteventheawesomeauraofhiscallingwouldnotpreventtheownersofthegatesfromtarringandfeatheringhimforit.