Incline unto our aid, O God!
O Lord make haste to help us!


There was a cold night smell in the chapel. But it was a holy smell. It
was not like the smell of the old peasants who knelt at the back of the
chapel at Sunday mass. That was a smell of air and rain and turf and
corduroy. But they were very holy peasants. They breathed behind him on
his neck and sighed as they prayed. They lived in Clane, a fellow said:
there were little cottages there and he had seen a
woman standing at the half-door of a cottage with a child in her arms
as the cars had come past from Sallins. It would be lovely to sleep for
one night in that cottage before the fire of smoking turf, in the dark
lit by the fire, in the warm dark, breathing the smell of the peasants,
air and rain and turf and corduroy. But O, the road there between the
trees was dark! You would be lost in the dark. It made him afraid to
think of how it was.

He heard the voice of the prefect of the chapel saying the last
prayers. He prayed it too against the dark outside under the trees.


VISIT, WE BESEECH THEE, O LORD, THIS HABITATION AND DRIVE
AWAY FROM IT ALL THE SNARES OF THE ENEMY. MAY THY HOLY
ANGELS DWELL HEREIN TO PRESERVE US IN PEACE AND MAY THY
BLESSINGS BE ALWAYS UPON US THROUGH CHRIST OUR LORD.
AMEN.


His fingers trembled as he undressed himself in the dormitory. He told