And indeed they were a fine squad of broad-
shouldered, good-looking men, heavily-armed, marching along, square and
soldier-like, with a long, swinging step that goes over the ground
quickly.
We followed them up a stone-fenced lane just wide enough for the car to
pass. As we went along, men working at building a stone wall, looked at
the procession with a cowed frightened look. Our carman gave them the
"God save you" in Irish, and in answering they turned on us surely the
weariest faces that ever sat on mortal man. The lane becoming narrower,
we soon had to leave the car and follow the police on foot through a
pasture sprinkled with daisies.
Suddenly we saw the police scatter, sit down on the ditch and light
their pipes, throw themselves on the grass, group themselves in two's
and three's here and there. The end of the journey was reached.
We looked round for the wild men of Mayo from whom the bailiff, sub-
sheriff, and agent were to be protected, who were, I was told, to shed
rivers of blood that day. They were conspicuous by their absence. There
were three or four dejected-looking men standing humbly a bit off, three
women sitting among the bushes up the slope, that was all.
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