Читать книгу The Rat-Pit - Patrick MacGill - Страница 16

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ABOUT the hour of midnight the heavens cleared and the moon, hardly full, lighted up the coast of Western Donegal. On the bosom of the sea a few dark specks moved to and fro, and at intervals the splash of oars could be heard. When the oars were lifted out of the sea the water, falling from them, looked like molten silver.

“Norah will be warm in bed by now,” said a voice.

“If she caught the tide when it was standing,” a voice clearer and younger replied.

“If she caught the tide,” repeated the first speaker in a thoughtful tone; then after a short silence, “Does not the land look black, back from the sea?”

The youth studied the shore-line attentively, allowing his oar to trail through the water. “Mother of God! but it looks ugly,” he replied. “I hate it! I hate it more than I hate anything!”

On shore most of the women were now asleep amongst the rocks, their shawls drawn tightly over their heads and their feet tucked up under their petticoats. Maire a Crick, still awake, hummed a tune deep down in her throat, and Judy Farrel coughed incessantly. One white, youthful face was turned to the heavens, and the moon, glancing for a moment on the pale cheeks of the sleeper, caused a tear falling from the closed eyelids to sparkle like a pearl.