THE PEREGRINE FALCON 
smoke wisps from men's chimneys stood 
together as closely as the trees which bordered 
men's shaven fields. From source to estuary 
the river flowed through a country without a 
hill : smooth from horizon to horizon. 
The great spire towered above the city in the 
plain, its grey front stout as the crags along 
the Atlantic seaboard black against the light. 
Only the golden cross which barbed the steeple 
caught the sunrise fire and outvied the morning 
star. Smoke curled from the houses round 
about, but as yet the city lay at peace. 
Storm-beaten and weary, in an unknown 
and hostile world, the peregrine falcon took 
sanctuary. 
St. John's Church stood in the middle of 
Durrowmore town, built on a mound which 
lifted it to the level of the roofs of the sur- 
rounding houses fifty feet nearer heaven. The 
mound was fenced with spiked iron palings, as 
though to fend off the encroaching buildings, 
and squalid children squabbled and clamoured 
in the street, and clambered along the railings 
to pick the dusty laurustinus flowers between 
the bars. 
Every day the people passed in and out 
through the silently swinging doors of the 
church, and on Sundays and holidays they 
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