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took a candle from the table and examined the wound, a wide gash running along the outside of her right breast and passing under her armpit. An inch to the left and she would have been dead.
    "Just a graze, really."
    "I know.,'
    "The important thing is that you won't need a doctor." The wound was bleeding again from the movement of her undressing, and he could see that it had bled and coagulated several times already. "It's going to hurt a bit." He dressed the wound while she stood with her arm raised. "Lie down and wrap yourself in the blanket."
    She lay down and stared at him in the flickering light. She was cold, wet, and feverish. Her whole side ached, and the food had made her nauseous, though she was very thirsty. "We live Re animals, licking our wounds, cut off from humanity . . . from . . ."
    "God? But don't settle for this second-class Popish nonsense, Maureen. Join the Church of England-then you'll have your God, your respectability, and you can sit over tea with the Ladies' Auxiliary and complain about the IRA's latest outrage."
    She closed her eyes, and tears ran down her cheeks.
    When he saw that she was sleeping, he took the cup of Dunphy's and drained it, then began walking around the

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    cellar. He examined the walls again and saw the scorch marks. How many times had this place been put to the torch? What made this location holy to both the Druids and the Christians? What spirit lived here in the heart of the earth? He carried a candle to the wooden chest and studied it.
    After some time he reached out and lifted the lid.
    Inside he saw fragments of limestone that bore ancient Celtic inscriptions and a few unidentifiable pieces of metal, bronze, rusted iron. He pushed some of the objects aside, revealing a huge oval ring crusted with verdigris. He slipped it on his ring finger. It was large, but it stayed on his finger well enough. He clenched his fist and studied the ring. It bore a crest, and through the tarnish he could make out Celtic writing around a crudely molded bearded face.
    He rubbed his fingers over the ring and wiped away some of the encrustation. The crude face stared back at him like a child's rendering of a particularly fearsome man. He felt dizzy and sensed his legs buckling under him. He was aware of hitting the floor. Then he blacked out.

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CHAPTER 4
    Brian Flynn woke to find a face staring down at him.
    "It's noon," said Father Donnelly. "I've brought you some lunch."
    Flynn focused on the ruddy face of the old man. He saw that the priest was staring at the ring on his finger. He got to his feet and looked around.
    Maureen was sitting at the table wearing a new pullover and eating from a steaming bowl. The priest had been there for some time, and that annoyed him. He walked over and sat opposite her. "Feeling better?"
    "Much."
    Father Donnelly pulled up a stool. "Would ~ou mind if I joined you?"
    "It's your food and your table," said Flynn.
    The priest smiled. "One never gets used to dining alone."
    Flynn took a spoon. "Why don't they send you a monk or something?" He took a spoonful of stew.
    "There's a lay brother who does the caretaking, but he's on leave." He leaned forward. "I see you've found the treasure of Whitehorn Abbey."
    Flynn continued to eat as he spoke. "Sorry. Couldn't resist the temptation."
    "That's all right."
    Maureen looked up. "What are we talking about, please?"
    Flynn slipped off the ring, passed it to her, and motioned toward the opened chest.
    She examined the ring, then passed it to Father Donnelly. "Its an extraordinary ring."

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    Father Donnelly toyed with the ring. "Extraordinarily large, in any case."
    Flynn poured a bottle of Guinness into a glass. "Where did it come from?"
    The priest shook his head. 'The last abbot said it was always here with the other things in that box. It may have been excavated here during one of the rebuildings. Perhaps under this floor."
    Flynn stared at the ring in the priest's hand.