DOI article:
Frederic, Harold: The truce of the Bishop
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.27806#0104
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The Truce of the Bishop
For three days he sat in solitude, and all were forbidden his
presence. The old servant knew naught save that he wrote for
ever on the margins of his book, slowly and with sorry travail.
He touched no food or drink in that time, and at night, still
stretched half-seated in his chair, with the casket upon his
knees, he slumbered fitfully, eager always for the daylight and his
writing again.
All Dunbeekin heard of these things, and dwelt in thought on
nothing else. It was in no man’s mind to set one stone on
another in repair of the ruin the English had wrought. No net
was put into the bay, and the women lifted not a finger to the
task of making curds and white meats. Cattle were killed, and
their flesh seethed in new milk, for food ; but no cake was baked.
The strong meat put a stormy heart into the men. They ground
their spear-heads and javelins upon the stones, and cut from the
green hides of the slain cattle new covers, soaked and stretched in
sea-brine, for their round shields. When they looked one into
another’s face, a flash of expectant eyes passed, like a beam of sun-
light on a skene. Their words were few, though, for the Bishop
had a great name in all Carbery, and the shadow of his passing laid
a spell upon their tongues.
On the third day, a little after sunrise, a commotion stirred
among the priests and the strangers of the prelate’s household.
The chaplain had been summoned to the room of death, and the
Bishop was making his confession. Then doors were opened,
and Turlogh with those nearest him went in, until the chamber
was filled, and the passage thronged with men lifting themselves
on their toes to know what was to happen.
The Bishop, still in his chair, stared out of his eyes helplessly,
and drew breaths which fought their way in and out of his vast
girth of trunk. The mask which was his face was ashen-gray.
The
The Truce of the Bishop
For three days he sat in solitude, and all were forbidden his
presence. The old servant knew naught save that he wrote for
ever on the margins of his book, slowly and with sorry travail.
He touched no food or drink in that time, and at night, still
stretched half-seated in his chair, with the casket upon his
knees, he slumbered fitfully, eager always for the daylight and his
writing again.
All Dunbeekin heard of these things, and dwelt in thought on
nothing else. It was in no man’s mind to set one stone on
another in repair of the ruin the English had wrought. No net
was put into the bay, and the women lifted not a finger to the
task of making curds and white meats. Cattle were killed, and
their flesh seethed in new milk, for food ; but no cake was baked.
The strong meat put a stormy heart into the men. They ground
their spear-heads and javelins upon the stones, and cut from the
green hides of the slain cattle new covers, soaked and stretched in
sea-brine, for their round shields. When they looked one into
another’s face, a flash of expectant eyes passed, like a beam of sun-
light on a skene. Their words were few, though, for the Bishop
had a great name in all Carbery, and the shadow of his passing laid
a spell upon their tongues.
On the third day, a little after sunrise, a commotion stirred
among the priests and the strangers of the prelate’s household.
The chaplain had been summoned to the room of death, and the
Bishop was making his confession. Then doors were opened,
and Turlogh with those nearest him went in, until the chamber
was filled, and the passage thronged with men lifting themselves
on their toes to know what was to happen.
The Bishop, still in his chair, stared out of his eyes helplessly,
and drew breaths which fought their way in and out of his vast
girth of trunk. The mask which was his face was ashen-gray.
The