The morning was fine--the sun shone out with a yellow splendour--all
nature was refreshed--a pleasant smell rose up from tree, and flower,
and earth. The now dry pavement and all the row of village windows were
glittering merrily--the sparrows twittered their lively morning gossip
among the thick ivy of the old church tower--here and there the village
cock challenged his neighbour with high and vaunting crow, and the bugle
notes soared sweetly into the air from the artillery ground beside the
river.

Moore, the barber, was already busy making his morning circuit, servant
men and maids were dropping in and out at the baker's, and old Poll
Delany, in her weather-stained red hood, and neat little Kitty Lane,
with her bright young careful face and white basket, were calling at the
doors of their customers with new laid eggs. Through half-opened hall
doors you might see the powdered servant, or the sprightly maid in her
mob-cap in hot haste steaming away with the red japanned 'tea kitchen'
into the parlour. The town of Chapelizod, in short, was just sitting
down to its breakfast.

Mervyn, in the meantime, had had his solitary meal in the famous back
parlour of the Phoenix, where the newspapers lay, and all comers were
welcome. He was by no means a bad hero to look at, if such a thing were
needed. His face was pale, melancholy, statuesque--and his large
enthusiastic eyes, suggested a story and a secret--perhaps a horror.
Most men, had they known all, would have wondered with good Doctor
Walsingham, why, of all places in the world, he should have chosen the
little town where he now stood for even a temporary residence. It was
not a perversity, but rather a fascination. His whole life had been a
flight and a pursuit--a vain endeavour to escape from the evil spirit
that pursued him--and a chase of a chimera.