"The gun-shots--
what?" he asked, setting forward at a walk which taxed the rawbone's
stride.
"An invite--come to the wedding; that's all. Only it's a funeral this
time, and, if something good doesn't happen, there'll be more than one
funeral on the Sagalac to-morrow. I've had my try, but I dunno how it'll
come out. He's not a man of much dictionary is the Monseenoor."
"The Monseigneur Lourde? What does he say?"
"He says what we all say, that he is sorry. 'But why have the Orange
funeral while things are as they are?' he says, and he asks for the red
flag not to be shook in the face of the bull."
"That is not the talk of a fool, as most priests are," growled the other.
"Sure. But it wants a real wind-warbler to make them see it in Lebanon.
They've got the needle. They'll pray to-day with the taste of blood in
their mouths. It's gone too far. Only a miracle can keep things right.
The Mayor has wired for the mounted police--our own battalion of militia
wouldn't serve, and there'd be no use ordering them out--but the Riders
can't get here in time. The train's due the very time the funeral's to
start, but that train's always late, though they say the ingine-driver is
an Orangeman! And the funeral will start at the time fixed, or I don't
know the boys that belong to the lodge.
Pages:
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198