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sleep as a weary lover whom no caresses move, the sound of
hoofs upon the road. Not so faintly now as they come near
the bridge; and in a moment, as they pass the darkened win-
dows, the silence is cloven by alarm as by an arrow. They are
heard now far away, hoofs that shine amid the heavy night
as gems, hurrying beyond the sleeping fields to what jour-
ney’s end—what heart? —bearing what tidings?
APRIL 11. Read what I wrote last night. Vague words
for a vague emotion. Would she like it? I think so. Then I
should have to like it also.
APRIL 13. That tundish has been on my mind for a long
time. I looked it up and find it English and good old blunt
English too. Damn the dean of studies and his funnel! What
did he come here for to teach us his own language or to learn
it from us. Damn him one way or the other!
APRIL 14. John Alphonsus Mulrennan has just returned
from the west of Ireland. European and Asiatic papers please
copy. He told us he met an old man there in a mountain cab-
in. Old man had red eyes and short pipe. Old man spoke
Irish. Mulrennan spoke Irish. Then old man and Mulren-
nan spoke English. Mulrennan spoke to him about universe
and stars. Old man sat, listened, smoked, spat. Then said:
—Ah, there must be terrible queer creatures at the latter
end of the world.
I fear him. I fear his red-rimmed horny eyes. It is with
him I must struggle all through this night till day come, till
he or I lie dead, gripping him by the sinewy throat till... Till
what? Till he yield to me? No. I mean no harm.
APRIL 15. Met her today point blank in Grafton Street.

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