Attheplace,closetotheDeadMansPoint,attheRosses,wherethedisusedpilot?houselooksouttoseathroughtworoundwindowslikeeyes,amudcottagestooditury.Italsowasawatchhouse,foracertainoldMichaelBruen,whohadbeenasmugglerinhisday,andwasstillthefatherandgrandfatherofsmugglers,livedthere,andwhen,afternightfall,atallsercreptoverthebayfrhley,itwashisbusiohangahornlanthornihernwindow,thatthenewsmighttraveltoDorrensIsland,andfromthence,byanotherhornlanthorn,tothevillageoftheRosses.Butforthisglimmeringofmessages,hehadlittleunionwithmankind,forhewasveryold,andhadnothoughtforanythingbutforthemakingofhissoul,atthefootoftheSpanishcrucifixofcarvedoakthathungbyhisey,orbentdoubleovertherosaryofstonebeadsbroughttohimacargoofsilksandlacesoutofFranenighthehadwatchedhourafterhour,becauseagentleandfavourablewindwasblowing,andLaMeredeMisericordewasmuchoverdue;andhewasabouttoliedownuponhisheapofstraw,seeingthatthedahiteni,andthattheserwouldnotdaretorhleyandetoananchorafterdaybreak;whenhesawalonglineofheronsflyingslowlyfromDorrensIslandandtowardsthepoolswhichlie,halfchokedwithreeds,behindwhatiscalledtheSedRosses.Hehadneverbeforeseenheronsflyihesea,fortheyareshore?keepingbirds,andpartlybecausethishadstartledhimoutofhisdrowsiness,andmorebecausethelongdelayoftheserkepthiscupboardempty,hetookdownhisrustyshot?gun,ofwhichthebarrelwastiedoniece,andfollowedthemtowardsthepools.

    Whenhecamecloseenoughtohearthesighingoftherushesiermostpool,themwasgreyovertheworld,sothatthetallrushes,thestillwaters,thevagueclouds,