And so normal life resumed on the little island. There was no more fighting and there was no more fretting and indeed there was an end to poverty itself.
Roy Keane came back. Nobody died. Nobody fainted. Even the ranks of begrudgery could scarce forbear to cheer.
When the Irish and Romanian teams stood for the anthems and ceremonies there was a general cry of "Keano! Keano!", which was acknowledged demurely by Mr Keano himself.
Of course, against the madness of crowds the gods themselves contend in vain. We were braced, but there was no punctuating crack of rifle shot from a nearby book depository.
And even if there had been, Royston Brady, Lord Mayor of Dublin, lingered long enough around Keane to have taken the bullet himself.
The Lord Mayor's exemplary deed in selflessly exposing himself to danger and the glare of publicity set the tone for a dignified evening.
Roy Keane played for Ireland again. The world slipped back on to its prescribed axis. The overwhelming majority of Lansdowne Road ticket-holders bellowed their approval. Thus an end was put to the greatest calamity of modern Irish life.
And how was the play? Ireland won with a sublime late goal from Keane's urbane midfield partner, Mattie Holland, and other than that it was mainly Keano Lite. Little passes and darting runs fragranced with the old intelligence and occassional glimpses of his trademark ferocity. Twice, though, he was denied the chance of big romance when Romanian fingers or feet deprived him of goals.
Otherwise Keane was testing the water, but sporadically he was as of old.