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THE SNAKE’S PASS.

The Snake’s Pass

BY

BRAM STOKER, M.A.

LONDON:
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE & RIVINGTON, Ltd.
St. Dunstan’s House,
FETTER LANE, FLEET STREET.
1891.
All rights reserved.

CHISWICK PRESS:—C. WHITTINGHAM AND CO., TOOKS COURT,
CHANCERY LANE.

		PAGE
Chapter I.	A Sudden Storm	1
II.	The Lost Crown of Gold	15
III.	The Gombeen Man	36
IV.	The Secrets of the Bog	58
V.	On Knocknacar	83
VI.	Confidences	106
VII.	Vanished	126
VIII.	A Visit to Joyce	147
IX.	My New Property	160
X.	In the Cliff Fields	176
XI.	Un Mauvais Quart d’Heure	195
XII.	Bog-Fishing and Schooling	213
XIII.	Murdock’s Wooing	235
XIV.	A Trip to Paris	254
XV.	A Midnight Treasure Hunt	278
XVI.	A Grim Warning	297
XVII.	The Catastrophe	320
XVIII.	The Fulfilment	344

Between two great mountains of grey and green, as the rock cropped out between the tufts of emerald verdure, the valley, almost as narrow as a gorge, ran due west towards the sea. There was just room for the roadway, half cut in the rock, beside the narrow strip of dark lake of seemingly unfathomable depth that lay far below between perpendicular walls of frowning rock. As the valley opened, the land dipped steeply, and the lake became a foam-fringed torrent, widening out into pools and miniature lakes as it reached the lower ground. In the wide terrace-like steps of the shelving mountain there were occasional glimpses of civilization emerging from the almost primal desolation which immediately surrounded us—clumps of trees, cottages, and the irregular outlines of stone-walled fields, with black stacks of turf for winter firing piled here and there. Far beyond was the sea—the great Atlantic—with a wildly irregular coast-line studded with a myriad of clustering rocky islands. A sea of deep dark blue, with the distant horizon tinged with a line of faint white light, and here and there, where its margin was visible through the breaks in the rocky coast, fringed with a line of foam as the waves broke on the rocks or swept in great rollers over the level expanse of sands.

The sky was a revelation to me, and seemed to almost obliterate memories of beautiful skies, although I had just come from the south and had felt the intoxication of the Italian night, where in the deep blue sky the nightingale’s note seems to hang as though its sound and the colour were but different expressions of one common feeling.

The whole west was a gorgeous mass of violet and sulphur and gold—great masses of storm-cloud piling up and up till the very heavens seemed weighted with a burden too great to bear. Clouds of violet, whose centres were almost black and whose outer edges were tinged with living gold; great streaks and piled up clouds of palest yellow deepening into saffron and flame-colour which seemed to catch the coming sunset and to throw its radiance back to the eastern sky.

The view was the most beautiful that I had ever seen, and, accustomed as I had been only to the quiet pastoral beauty of a grass country, with occasional visits to my Great Aunt’s well-wooded estate in the South of England, it was no wonder that it arrested my attention and absorbed my imagination. Even my brief half-a-year’s travel in Europe, now just concluded, had shown me nothing of the same kind.

Earth, sea and air all evidenced the triumph of nature, and told of her wild majesty and beauty. The air was still—ominously still. So still was all, that through the silence, that seemed to hedge us in with a sense of oppression, came the booming of the distant sea, as the great Atlantic swell broke in surf on the rocks or stormed the hollow caverns of the shore.

Even Andy, the driver, was for the nonce awed into comparative silence. Hitherto, for nearly forty miles of a drive, he had been giving me his experiences—propounding his views—airing his opinions; in fact he had been making me acquainted with his store of knowledge touching the whole district and its people—including their names, histories, romances, hopes and fears—all that goes to make up the life and interest of a country-side.

No barber—taking this tradesman to illustrate the popular idea of loquacity in excelsis—is more consistently talkative than an Irish car-driver to whom has been granted the gift of speech. There is absolutely no limit to his capability, for every change of surrounding affords a new theme and brings on the tapis a host of matters requiring to be set forth.

I was rather glad of Andy’s ‘brilliant flash of silence’ just at present, for not only did I wish to drink in and absorb the grand and novel beauty of the scene that opened out before me, but I wanted to understand as fully as I could some deep thought which it awoke within me. It may have been merely the grandeur and beauty of the scene—or perhaps it was the thunder which filled the air that July evening—but I felt exalted in a strange way, and impressed at the same time with a new sense of the reality of things. It almost seemed as if through that opening valley, with the mighty Atlantic beyond and the piling up of the storm-clouds overhead, I passed into a new and more real life.

Somehow I had of late seemed to myself to be waking up. My foreign tour had been gradually dissipating my old sleepy ideas, or perhaps overcoming the negative forces that had hitherto dominated my life; and now this glorious burst of wild natural beauty—the majesty of nature at its fullest—seemed to have completed my awakening, and I felt as though I looked for the first time with open eyes on the beauty and reality of the world.

Hitherto my life had been but an inert one, and I was younger in many ways and more deficient in knowledge of the world in all ways than other young men of my own age. I had stepped but lately from boyhood, with all boyhood’s surroundings, into manhood, and as yet I was hardly at ease in my new position.

For the first time in my life I had had a holiday—a real holiday, as one can take it who can choose his own way of amusing himself.

I had been brought up in an exceedingly quiet way with an old clergyman and his wife in the west of England, and except my fellow pupils, of whom there was never at any time more than one other, I had had little companionship. Altogether I knew very few people. I was the ward of a Great Aunt, who was wealthy and eccentric and of a sternly uncompromising disposition. When my father and mother were lost at sea, leaving me, an only child, quite unprovided for, she undertook to pay for my schooling and to start me in a profession if I should show sufficient aptitude for any. My father had been pretty well cut off by his family on account of his marriage with what they considered his inferior, and times had been, I was always told, pretty hard for them both. I was only a very small boy when they were lost in a fog when crossing the Channel; and the blank that their loss caused me made me, I dare say, seem even a duller boy than I was. As I did not get into much trouble and did not exhibit any special restlessness of disposition, my Great Aunt took it, I suppose, for granted that I was very well off where I was; and when, through growing years, the fiction of my being a schoolboy could be no longer supported, the old clergyman was called “guardian” instead of “tutor,” and I passed with him the years that young men of the better class usually spend in College life. The nominal change of position made little difference to me, except that I was taught to ride and shoot, and was generally given the rudiments of an education which was to fit me for being a country gentleman. I dare say that my tutor had some secret understanding with my Great Aunt, but he never gave me any hint whatever of her feelings towards me. A part of my holidays each year was spent in her place, a beautiful country seat. Here I was always treated by the old lady with rigid severity but with the best of good manners, and by the servants with affection as well as respect. There were a host of cousins, both male and female, who came to the house; but I can honestly say that by not one of them was I ever treated with cordiality. It may have been my fault, or the misfortune of my shyness; but I never met one of them without being made to feel that I was an “outsider.”

I can understand now the cause of this treatment as arising from their suspicions when I remember that the old lady, who had been so severe with me all my life, sent for me when she lay on her deathbed, and, taking my hand in hers and holding it tight, said, between her gasps:—

“Arthur, I hope I have not done wrong, but I have reared you so that the world may for you have good as well as bad—happiness as well as unhappiness; that you may find many pleasures where you thought there were but few. Your youth, I know, my dear boy, has not been a happy one; but it was because I, who loved your dear father as if he had been my own son—and from whom I unhappily allowed myself to be estranged until it was too late—wanted you to have a good and happy manhood.”

She did not say any more, but closed her eyes and still held my hand. I feared to take it away lest I should disturb her; but presently the clasp seemed to relax, and I found that she was dead.

I had never seen a dead person, much less anyone die, and the event made a great impression on me. But youth is elastic, and the old lady had never been much in my heart.

When the will was read, it was found that I had been left heir to all her property, and that I would be called upon to take a place among the magnates of the county. I could not fall at once into the position and, as I was of a shy nature, resolved to spend at least a few months in travel. This I did, and when I had returned, after a six months’ tour, I accepted the cordial invitation of some friends, made on my travels, to pay them a visit at their place in the County of Clare.

As my time was my own, and as I had a week or two to spare, I had determined to improve my knowledge of Irish affairs by making a detour through some of the counties in the west on my way to Clare.

By this time I was just beginning to realize that life has many pleasures. Each day a new world of interest seemed to open before me. The experiment of my Great Aunt might yet be crowned with success.

And now the consciousness of the change in myself had come home to me—come with the unexpected suddenness of the first streak of the dawn through the morning mists. The moment was to be to me a notable one; and as I wished to remember it to the full, I tried to take in all the scene where such a revelation first dawned upon me. I had fixed in my mind, as the central point for my memory to rest on, a promontory right under the direct line of the sun, when I was interrupted by a remark made, not to me but seemingly to the universe in general:—

“Musha! but it’s comin’ quick.”

“What is coming?” I asked.

“The shtorm! Don’t ye see the way thim clouds is dhriftin’? Faix! but it’s fine times the ducks’ll be afther havin’ before many minutes is past.”

I did not heed his words much, for my thoughts were intent on the scene. We were rapidly descending the valley, and, as we got lower, the promontory seemed to take bolder shape, and was beginning to stand out as a round-topped hill of somewhat noble proportions.

“Tell me, Andy,” I said, “what do they call the hill beyond?”

“The hill beyant there is it? Well, now, they call the place Shleenanaher.”

“Then that is Shleenanaher mountain?”

“Begor it’s not. The mountain is called Knockcalltecrore. It’s Irish.”

“And what does it mean?”

“Faix, I believe it’s a short name for the Hill iv the Lost Goolden Crown.”

“And what is Shleenanaher, Andy?”

“Throth, it’s a bit iv a gap in the rocks beyant that they call Shleenanaher.”

“And what does that mean? It is Irish, I suppose?”

“Thrue for ye! Irish it is, an’ it manes ‘The Shnake’s Pass.’”

“Indeed! And can you tell me why it is so called?”

“Begor, there’s a power iv raysons guv for callin’ it that. Wait till we get Jerry Scanlan or Bat Moynahan, beyant in Carnaclif! Sure they knows every laygend and shtory in the bar’ny, an’ll tell them all, av ye like. Whew! Musha! here it comes.”

Surely enough it did come. The storm seemed to sweep through the valley in a single instant—the stillness changed to a roar, the air became dark with the clouds of drifting rain. It was like the bursting of a waterspout in volume, and came so quickly that I was drenched to the skin before I could throw my mackintosh round me. The mare seemed frightened at first, but Andy held her in with a steady hand and with comforting words, and after the first rush of the tempest she went on as calmly and steadily as hitherto, only shrinking a little at the lightning and the thunder.

The grandeur of that storm was something to remember. The lightning came in brilliant sheets that seemed to cleave the sky, and threw weird lights amongst the hills, now strange with black sweeping shadows. The thunder broke with startling violence right over our heads, and flapped and buffeted from hillside to hillside, rolling and reverberating away into the distance, its farther voices being lost in the crash of each succeeding peal.

On we went, through the driving storm, faster and faster; but the storm abated not a jot. Andy was too much occupied with his work to speak, and as for me it took all my time to keep on the rocking and swaying car, and to hold my hat and mackintosh so as to shield myself, as well as I could, from the pelting storm. Andy seemed to be above all considerations of personal comfort. He turned up his coat collar, that was all; and soon he was as shiny as my own waterproof rug. Indeed, altogether, he seemed quite as well off as I was, or even better, for we were both as wet as we could be, and whilst I was painfully endeavouring to keep off the rain he was free from all responsibility and anxiety of endeavour whatever.

At length, as we entered on a long straight stretch of level road, he turned to me and said:—

“Yer ’an’r it’s no kind iv use dhrivin’ like this all the way to Carnaclif. This shtorm’ll go on for hours. I know thim well up in these mountains, wid’ a nor’-aist wind blowin’. Wouldn’t it be betther for us to get shelther for a bit?”

“Of course it would,” said I. “Try it at once! Where can you go?”

“There’s a place nigh at hand, yer ’an’r, the Widdy Kelligan’s sheebeen, at the cross-roads of Glennashaughlin. It’s quite contagious. Gee-up! ye ould corncrake! hurry up to Widdy Kelligan’s.”

It seemed almost as if the mare understood him and shared his wishes, for she started with increased speed down a laneway that opened out a little on our left. In a few minutes we reached the cross-roads, and also the sheebeen of Widow Kelligan, a low whitewashed thatched house, in a deep hollow between high banks in the south-western corner of the cross. Andy jumped down and hurried to the door.

“Here’s a sthrange gintleman, Widdy. Take care iv him,” he called out, as I entered.

Before I had succeeded in closing the door behind me he was unharnessing the mare, preparatory to placing her in the lean-to stable, built behind the house against the high bank.

Already the storm seemed to have sent quite an assemblage to Mrs. Kelligan’s hospitable shelter. A great fire of turf roared up the chimney, and round it stood, and sat, and lay a steaming mass of nearly a dozen people, men and women. The room was a large one, and the inglenook so roomy that nearly all those present found a place in it. The roof was black, rafters and thatch alike; quite a number of cocks and hens found shelter in the rafters at the end of the room. Over the fire was a large pot, suspended on a wire, and there was a savoury and inexpressibly appetizing smell of marked volume throughout the room of roasted herrings and whisky punch.

As I came in all rose up, and I found myself placed in a warm seat close to the fire, whilst various salutations of welcome buzzed all around me. The warmth was most grateful, and I was trying to convey my thanks for the shelter and the welcome, and feeling very awkward over it, when, with a “God save all here!” Andy entered the room through the back door.

He was evidently a popular favourite, for there was a perfect rain of hearty expressions to him. He, too, was placed close to the fire, and a steaming jorum of punch placed in his hands—a similar one to that which had been already placed in my own. Andy lost no time in sampling that punch. Neither did I; and I can honestly say that if he enjoyed his more than I did mine he must have had a very happy few minutes. He lost no time in making himself and all the rest comfortable.

“Hurroo!” said he. “Musha! but we’re just in time. Mother, is the herrins done? Up with the creel, and turn out the pitaties; they’re done, or me senses desaves me. Yer ’an’r, we’re in the hoight iv good luck! Herrins, it is, and it might have been only pitaties an’ point.”

“What is that?” I asked.

“Oh, that is whin there is only wan herrin’ amongst a crowd—too little to give aich a taste, and so they put it in the middle and point the pitaties at it to give them a flaviour.”

All lent a hand with the preparation of supper. A great potato basket, which would hold some two hundredweight, was turned bottom up—the pot was taken off the fire, and the contents turned out on it in a great steaming mass of potatoes. A handful of coarse salt was taken from a box and put on one side of the basket, and another on the other side. The herrings were cut in pieces, and a piece given to each.—The dinner was served.

There were no plates, no knives, forks or spoons—no ceremony—no precedence—nor was there any heartburning, jealousy or greed. A happier meal I never took a part in—nor did I ever enjoy food more. Such as it was it was perfect. The potatoes were fine and cooked to perfection; we took them in our fingers, peeled them how we could, dipped them in the salt—and ate till we were satisfied.

During the meal several more strangers dropped in and all reported the storm as showing no signs of abating. Indeed, little such assurance was wanting, for the fierce lash of the rain and the howling of the storm as it beat on the face of the house, told the tale well enough for the meanest comprehension.

When dinner was over and the basket removed, we drew around the fire again—pipes were lit—a great steaming jug of punch made its appearance, and conversation became general. Of course, as a stranger, I came in for a good share of attention.

Andy helped to make things interesting for me, and his statement, made by my request, that I hoped to be allowed to provide the punch for the evening, even increased his popularity, whilst it established mine. After calling attention to several matters which evoked local stories and jokes and anecdotes, he remarked:—

“His ’an’r was axin’ me just afore the shtorm kem on as to why the Shleenanaher was called so. I tould him that none could tell him like Jerry Scanlan or Bat Moynahan, an’ here is the both of them, sure enough. Now, boys, won’t ye oblige the sthrange gintleman an tell him what yez know iv the shtories anent the hill?”

“Wid all the plisure in life,” said Jerry Scanlan, a tall man of middle age, with a long, thin, clean shaven face, a humorous eye, and a shirt collar whose points in front came up almost to his eyes, whilst the back part disappeared into the depths of his frieze coat collar behind.

“Begor yer ’an’r I’ll tell ye all I iver heerd. Sure there’s a laygend, and there’s a shtory—musha! but there’s a wheen o’ both laygends and shtories—but there’s wan laygend beyant all—Here! Mother Kelligan, fill up me glass, fur sorra one o’ me is a good dhry shpaker—Tell me, now, sor, do they allow punch to the Mimbers iv Parlymint whin they’re spakin’?” I shook my head.

“Musha! thin, but its meself they’ll niver git as a mimber till they alther that law. Thank ye, Mrs. Kelligan, this is just my shtyle. But now for the laygend that they tell of Shleenanaher:—”

“Well, in the ould ancient times, before St. Patrick banished the shnakes from out iv Ireland, the hill beyant was a mighty important place intirely. For more betoken, none other lived in it than the King iv the Shnakes himself. In thim times there was up at the top iv the hill a wee bit iv a lake wid threes and sedges and the like growin’ round it; and ’twas there that the King iv the Shnakes made his nist—or whativer it is that shnakes calls their home. Glory be to God! but none of us knows anythin’ of them at all, at all, since Saint Patrick tuk them in hand.”

Here an old man in the chimney corner struck in:—

“Thrue for ye, Acushla; sure the bit lake is there still, though more belike it’s dhry now it is, and the threes is all gone.”

“Well,” went on Jerry, not ill-pleased with this corroboration of his story, “the King iv the Shnakes was mighty important intirely. He was more nor tin times as big as any shnake as any man’s eyes had iver saw; an’ he had a goolden crown on to the top of his head, wid a big jool in it that tuk the colour iv the light, whether that same was from the sun or the moon; an’ all the shnakes had to take it in turns to bring food, and lave it for him in the cool iv the evenin’, whin he would come out and ate it up and go back to his own place. An’ they do say that whiniver two shnakes had a quarr’ll they had to come to the King, an’ he decided betune them; an’ he tould aich iv them where he was to live, and what he was to do. An’ wanst in ivery year there had to be brought to him a live baby; and they do say that he would wait until the moon was at the full, an’ thin would be heerd one wild wail that made every sowl widin miles shuddher, an’ thin there would be black silence, and clouds would come over the moon, and for three days it would never be seen agin.”

“Oh, Glory be to God!” murmured one of the women, “but it was a terrible thing!” and she rocked herself to and fro, moaning, all the motherhood in her awake.

“But did none of the min do nothin’?” said a powerful-looking young fellow in the orange and green jersey of the Gaelic Athletic Club, with his eyes flashing; and he clenched his teeth.

“Musha! how could they? Sure, no man ever seen the King iv the Shnakes!”

“Thin how did they know about him?” he queried doubtfully.

“Sure, wasn’t one of their childher tuk away iv’ry year? But, anyhow, it’s all over now! an’ so it was that none iv the min iver wint. They do say that one woman what lost her child, run up to the top of the hill; but what she seen, none could tell, for, whin they found her she was a ravin’ lunatic, wid white hair an eyes like a corpse—an’ the mornin’ afther they found her dead in her bed wid a black mark round her neck as if she had been choked, an’ the mark was in the shape iv a shnake. Well! there was much sorra and much fear, and whin St. Pathrick tuk the shnakes in hand the bonfires was lit all over the counthry. Never was such a flittin’ seen as whin the shnakes came from all parts wrigglin’ and crawlin’ an shkwirmin’.”

Here the narrator dramatically threw himself into an attitude, and with the skill of a true improvisatore, suggested in every pose and with every limb and in every motion the serpentine movements.

“They all came away to the West, and seemed to come to this wan mountain. From the North and the South and the East they came be millions an’ thousands an’ hundhreds—for whin St. Patrick ordhered them out he only tould them to go, but he didn’t name the place—an there was he up on top of Brandon mountain wid his vistments on to him an’ his crozier in his hand, and the shnakes movein’ below him, all goin up North, an’, sez he to himself:—

“‘I must see about this.’ An’ he got down from aff iv the mountain, and he folly’d the shnakes, and he see them move along to the hill beyant that they call Knockcalltecrore. An’ be this time they wor all come from all over Ireland, and they wor all round the mountain—exceptin’ on the say side—an’ they all had their heads pointed up the hill, and their tails pointed to the Saint, so that they didn’t see him, an’ they all gave wan great hiss, an’ then another, an’ another, like wan, two, three! An’ at the third hiss the King of the Shnakes rose up out of the wee fen at the top of the hill, wid his gold crown gleamin’—an’ more betoken it was harvest time, an’ the moon was up, an’ the sun was settin’, so the big jool in the crown had the light of both the sun an’ the moon, an’ it shone so bright that right away in Lensther the people thought the whole counthry was afire. But whin the Saint seen him, his whole forrum seemed to swell out an’ get bigger an’ bigger, an’ he lifted his crozier, an’ he pointed West, an’ sez he, in a voice like a shtorm, ‘To the say all ye shnakes! At wanst! to the say!’

“An’ in the instant, wid wan movement, an’ wid a hiss that made the air seem full iv watherfalls the whole iv the shnakes that was round the hill wriggled away into the say as if the fire was at their tails. There was so many iv them that they filled up the say out beyant to Cusheen Island, and them that was behind, had to shlide over their bodies. An’ the say piled up till it sent a wave mountains high rollin’ away across the Atlantic till it sthruck upon the shore iv America—though more betoken it wasn’t America thin, for it wasn’t discovered till long afther. An’ there was so many shnakes that they do say that all the white sand that dhrifts up on the coast from the Blaskets to Achill Head is made from their bones.” Here Andy cut in:—

“But, Jerry, you haven’t tould us if the King iv the Shnakes wint too.”

“Musha! but it’s in a hurry ye are. How can I tell ye the whole laygend at wanst; an’, moreover, when me mouth is that dhry I can hardly spake at all—an’ me punch is all dhrunk——”

He turned his glass face down on the table, with an air of comic resignation. Mrs. Kelligan took the hint and refilled his glass whilst he went on:—

“Well! whin the shnakes tuk to say-bathin’ an’ forgot to come in to dhry themselves, the ould King iv thim sunk down agin into the lake, an’ Saint Pathrick rowls his eyes, an’ sez he to himself:—

“‘Musha! is it dhramin’ I am, or what? or is it laughin’ at me he is? Does he mane to defy me?‘ An’ seein’ that no notice was tuk iv him at all, he lifts his crozier, and calls out:—

“‘Hi! Here! You! Come here! I want ye!’—As he spoke, Jerry went through all the pantomime of the occasion, exemplifying by every movement the speech of both the Saint and the Snake.

“Well! thin the King iv the Shnakes puts up his head, out iv the lake, an’ sez he:—

“‘Who calls?’

“‘I do,’ says Saint Pathrick, an’ he was so much mulvathered at the Shnake presumin’ to sthay, afther he tould thim all to go, that for a while he didn’t think it quare that he could sphake at all.

“‘Well, what do ye want wid me?’ sez the Shnake.

“‘I want to know why you didn’t lave Irish soil wid all th’ other Shnakes,’ sez the Saint.

“‘Ye tould the Shnakes to go,’ sez the King, ‘an’ I am their King, so I am; and your wurrds didn’t apply to me!’ an’ with that he dhrops like a flash of lightnin’ into the lake agin.

“Well! St. Patrick was so tuk back wid his impidence that he had to think for a minit, an’ then he calls again:—

“‘Hi! here! you!’

“‘What do you want now?’ sez the King iv the Shnakes, again poppin’ up his head.

“‘I want to know why you didn’t obey me ordhers?’ sez the Saint. An’ the King luked at him an’ laughed; and he looked mighty evil, I can tell ye—for be this time the sun was down and the moon up, and the jool in his crown threw out a pale cold light that would make you shuddher to see. ‘An’,’ says he, as slow an’ as hard as an attorney (saving your prisence) when he has a bad case:—

“‘I didn’t obey,’ sez be, ‘because I thraverse the jurisdiction.’

“‘How do ye mane?’ asks St. Pathrick.

“‘Because,’ sez he, ‘this is my own houldin’,’ sez he, ‘be perscriptive right,’ sez he. ‘I’m the whole govermint here, and I put a nexeat on meself not to lave widout me own permission,’ and he ducks down agin into the pond.

“Well, the Saint began to get mighty angry, an’ he raises his crozier, and he calls him agin:—

“‘Hi! here! you!’ and the Shnake pops up.

“‘Well! Saint, what do you want now? Amn’t I to be quit iv ye at all?’

“‘Are ye goin’, or are ye not?’ sez the Saint.

“‘I’m king here; an’ I’m not goin’.’

“‘Thin,’ says the Saint, ‘I depose ye!’

“‘You can’t,’ sez the Shnake, ‘whilst I have me crown.’

“‘Then I’ll take it from ye,’ sez St. Pathrick.

“‘Catch me first!’ sez the Shnake; an’ wid that he pops undher the wather, what began to bubble up and boil. Well thin! the good Saint stood bewildhered, for as he was lukin’ the wather began to disappear out of the wee lake—and then the ground iv the hill began to be shaken as if the big Shnake was rushin’ round and round it down deep down undher the ground.

“So the Saint stood on the edge of the empty lake an’ held up his crozier, and called on the Shnake to come forth. And when he luked down, lo! an’ behold ye! there lay the King iv the Shnakes coiled round the bottom iv the lake—though how he had got there the Saint could niver tell, for he hadn’t been there when he began to summons him. Then the Shnake raised his head, and, lo! and behold ye! there was no crown on to it.

“‘Where is your crown?’ sez the Saint.

“‘It’s hid,’ sez the Shnake, leerin’ at him.

“‘Where is it hid?’

“‘It’s hid in the mountain! Buried where you nor the likes iv you can’t touch it in a thousand years!’ an’ he leered agin.

“‘Tell me where it may be found?’ sez the Saint starnly. An’ thin the Shnake leers at him again wid an eviller smile than before; an’ sez he:—

“‘Did ye see the wather what was in the lake?’

“‘I did,’ sez Saint Pathrick.

“‘Thin, when ye find that wather ye may find me jool’d crown, too,’ sez he; an’ before the Saint could say a word, he wint on:—

“‘An’ till ye git me crown I’m king here still, though ye banish me. An’ mayhap, I’ll come in some forrum what ye don’t suspect, for I must watch me crown. An’ now I go away—iv me own accorrd.‘ An’ widout one word more, good or bad, he shlid right away into the say, dhrivin’ through the rock an’ makin’ the clift that they call the Shleenanaher—an’ that’s Irish for the Shnake’s Pass—until this day.”

“An’ now, sir, if Mrs. Kelligan hasn’t dhrunk up the whole bar’l, I’d like a dhrop iv punch, for talkin’ is dhry wurrk,” and he buried his head in the steaming jorum, which the hostess had already prepared.

The company then began to discuss the legend. Said one of the women:—

“I wondher what forrum he tuk when he kem back!” Jerry answered:—

“Sure, they do say that the shiftin’ bog wor the forrum he tuk. The mountain wid the lake on top used to be the fertilest shpot in the whole counthry; but iver since the bog began to shift this was niver the same.”

Here a hard-faced man named McGlown, who had been silent, struck in with a question:—

“But who knows when the bog did begin to shift?”

“Musha! Sorra one of me knows; but it was whin th’ ould Shnake druv the wather iv the lake into the hill!”—There was a twinkle in the eyes of the story-teller, which made one doubt his own belief in his story.

“Well, for ma own part,” said McGlown, “A don’t believe a sengle word of it.”

“An’ for why not?” said one of the women. “Isn’t the mountain called ‘Knockcalltecrore,’ or ‘The Hill of the Lost Crown iv Gold,’ till this day?” Said another:—

“Musha! how could Misther McGlown believe anythin’, an’ him a Protestan’.”

“A’ll tell ye that A much prefer the facs,” said McGlown. “Ef hestory es till be believed, A much prefer the story told till me by yon old man. Damn me! but A believe he’s old enough till remember the theng itself.”

He pointed as he spoke to old Moynahan, who, shrivelled up and white-haired, crouched in a corner of the inglenook, holding close to the fire his wrinkled shaky hands.

“What is the story that Mr. Moynahan has, may I ask?” said I. “Pray oblige, me, won’t you? I am anxious to hear all I can of the mountain, for it has taken my fancy strangely.”

The old man took the glass of punch, which Mrs. Kelligan handed him as the necessary condition antecedent to a story, and began:—

“Oh, sorra one of me knows anythin’ except what I’ve heerd from me father. But I oft heerd him say that he was tould, that it was said, that in the Frinch invasion that didn’t come off undher Gineral Humbert, whin the attimpt was over an’ all hope was gone, the English sodgers made sure of great prize-money whin they should git hould of the threasure chist. For it was known that there was much money goin’ an’ that they had brought a lot more than iver they wanted for pay and expinses in ordher to help to bribe some of the people that was houldin’ off to be bought by wan side or the other—if they couldn’t manage to git bought be both. But sure enough they wor all sould, bad cess to thim! and the divil a bit of money could they lay their hands on at all.”

Here the old man took a pull at his jug of punch, with so transparent a wish to be further interrogated that a smile flashed round the company. One of the old crones remarked, in an audible sotto voce:—

“Musha! But Bat is the cute story-teller intirely. Ye have to dhrag it out iv him! Go on, Bat! Go on! Tell us what become iv the money.”

“Oh, what become iv the money? So ye would like to hear! Well, I’ll tell ye.—Just one more fill of the jug, Mrs. Kelligan, as the gintleman wishes to know all about it.—Well! they did say that the officer what had charge of the money got well away with some five or six others. The chist was a heavy wan—an iron chist bang full up iv goold! Oh, my! but it was fine! A big chist—that high, an’ as long as the table, an’ full up to the led wid goolden money an’ paper money, an’ divil a piece of white money in it at all! All goold, every pound note iv it.”

He paused, and glanced anxiously at Mrs. Kelligan, who was engaged in the new brew.

“Not too much wather if ye love me, Katty. You know me wakeness!—Well, they do say that it tuk hard work to lift the chist into the boat; an’ thin they put in a gun carriage to carry it on, an’ tuk out two horses, an’ whin the shmoke was all round an’ the darkness of night was on they got on shore, an’ made away down South from where the landin’ was made at Killala. But, anyhow, they say that none of them was ever heerd of agin. But they was thraced through Ardnaree an’ Lough Conn, an’ through Castlebar Lake an’ Lough Carra, an’ through Lough Mask an’ Lough Corrib. But they niver kem out through Galway, for the river was watched for thim day an’ night be the sodgers; and how they got along God knows! for ’twas said they suffered quare hardships. They tuk the chist an’ the gun carriage an’ the horses in the boat, an’ whin they couldn’t go no further they dhragged the boat over the land to the next lake, an’ so on. Sure one dhry sayson, when the wathers iv Corrib was down feet lower nor they was iver known afore, a boat was found up at the Bealanabrack end that had lay there for years; but the min nor the horses nor the treasure was never heerd of from that day to this—so they say,” he added, in a mysterious way, and he renewed his attention to the punch, as if his tale was ended.

“But, man alive!” said McGlown, “that’s only a part. Go on, man dear! an’ fenesh the punch after.”

“Oh, oh! Yes, of course, you want to know the end. Well! no wan knows the end. But they used to say that whin the min lift the boat they wint due west, till one night they sthruck the mountain beyant; an’ that there they buried the chist an’ killed the horses, or rode away on them. But anyhow, they wor niver seen again; an’ as sure as you’re alive, the money is there in the hill! For luk at the name iv it! Why did any wan iver call it ‘Knockcalltore’—an’ that’s Irish for ‘the Hill of the Lost Gold’—if the money isn’t there?”

“Thrue for ye!” murmured an old woman with a cutty pipe. “For why, indeed? There’s some people what won’t believe nothin’ altho’ it’s undher their eyes!” and she puffed away in silent rebuke to the spirit of scepticism—which, by the way, had not been manifested by any person present.

There was a long pause, broken only by one of the old women, who occasionally gave a sort of half-grunt, half-sigh, as though unconsciously to fill up the hiatus in the talk. She was a ‘keener’ by profession, and was evidently well fitted to, and well drilled in, her work. Presently old Moynahan broke the silence:—

“Well! it’s a mighty quare thing anyhow that the hill beyant has been singled out for laygends and sthories and gossip iv all kinds consarnin’ shnakes an’ the like. An’ I’m not so sure, naythur, that some iv thim isn’t there shtill—for mind ye! it’s a mighty curious thin’ that the bog beyant keeps shiftin’ till this day. And I’m not so sure, naythur, that the shnakes has all left the hill yit!”

There was a chorus of “Thrue for ye!”

“Aye, an’ it’s a black shnake too!” said one.

“An’ wid side-whishkers!” said another.

“Begorra! we want Saint Pathrick to luk in here agin!” said a third.

I whispered to Andy the driver:—

“Who is it they mean?”

“Whisht!” he answered, but without moving his lips; “but don’t let on I tould ye! Sure an’ it’s Black Murdock they mane.”

“Who or what is Murdock?” I queried.

“Sure an’ he is the Gombeen Man.”

“What is that? What is a gombeen man?”

“Whisper me now!” said Andy; “ax some iv the others. They’ll larn it ye more betther nor I can.”

“What is a gombeen man?” I asked to the company generally.

“A gombeen man is it? Well! I’ll tell ye,” said an old, shrewd-looking man at the other side of the hearth. “He’s a man that linds you a few shillin’s or a few pounds whin ye want it bad, and then niver laves ye till he has tuk all ye’ve got—yer land an’ yer shanty an’ yer holdin’ an’ yer money an’ yer craps; an’ he would take the blood out of yer body if he could sell it or use it anyhow!”

“Oh, I see, a sort of usurer.”

“Ushurer? aye that’s it; but a ushurer lives in the city an’ has laws to hould him in. But the gombeen has nayther law nor the fear iv law. He’s like wan that the Scriptures says ‘grinds the faces iv the poor.’ Begor! it’s him that’d do little for God’s sake if the divil was dead!”

“Then I suppose this man Murdock is a man of means—a rich man in his way?”

“Rich is it? Sure an’ it’s him as has plinty. He could lave this place if he chose an’ settle in Galway—aye or in Dublin itself if he liked betther, and lind money to big min—landlords an’ the like—instead iv playin’ wid poor min here an’ swallyin’ them up, wan be wan.—But he can’t go! He can’t go!” This he said with a vengeful light in his eyes; I turned to Andy for explanation.

“Can’t go! How does he mean? What does he mean?”

“Whisht! Don’t ax me. Ax Dan, there. He doesn’t owe him any money!”

“Which is Dan?”

“The ould man there be the settle what has just spoke, Dan Moriarty. He’s a warrum man, wid money in bank an’ what owns his houldin’; an’ he’s not afeerd to have his say about Murdock.”

“Can any of you tell me why Murdock can’t leave the Hill?” I spoke out.

“Begor’ I can,” said Dan, quickly. “He can’t lave it because the Hill houlds him!”

“What on earth do you mean? How can the Hill hold him?”

“It can hould tight enough! There may be raysons that a man gives—sometimes wan thing, an’ sometimes another; but the Hill houlds—an’ houlds tight all the same!”

Here the door was opened suddenly, and the fire blazed up with the rush of wind that entered. All stood up suddenly, for the new comer was a priest. He was a sturdy man of middle age, with a cheerful countenance. Sturdy as he was, however, it took him all his strength to shut the door, but he succeeded before any of the men could get near enough to help him. Then he turned and saluted all the company:—

“God save all here.”

All present tried to do him some service. One took his wet great coat, another his dripping hat, and a third pressed him into the warmest seat in the chimney corner, where, in a very few seconds, Mrs. Kelligan handed him a steaming glass of punch, saying, “Dhrink that up, yer Riv’rence. ’Twill help to kape ye from catchin’ cowld.”

“Thank ye, kindly,” he answered, as he took it. When he had half emptied the glass, he said:—

“What was it I heard as I came in about the Hill holding some one?” Dan answered:—

“‘Twas me, yer Riverence, I said that the Hill had hould of Black Murdock, and could hould him tight.”

“Pooh! pooh! man; don’t talk such nonsense. The fact is, sir,” said he, turning to me after throwing a searching glance round the company, “the people here have all sorts of stories about that unlucky Hill—why, God knows; and this man Murdock, that they call Black Murdock, is a money-lender as well as a farmer, and none of them like him, for he is a hard man and has done some cruel things among them. When they say the Hill holds him, they mean that he doesn’t like to leave it because he hopes to find a treasure that is said to be buried in it. I’m not sure but that the blame is to be thrown on the different names given to the Hill. That most commonly given is Knockcalltecrore, which is a corruption of the Irish phrase Knock-na-callte-crōin-ōir, meaning, ‘The Hill of the Lost Golden Crown;’ but it has been sometimes called Knockcalltore—short for the Irish words Knock-na-callte-ōir, or ‘The Hill of the Lost Gold.’ It is said that in some old past time it was called Knocknanaher, or ‘The Hill of the Snake;’ and, indeed, there’s one place on it they call Shleenanaher, meaning the ‘Snake’s Pass.’ I dare say, now, that they have been giving you the legends and stories and all the rubbish of that kind. I suppose you know, sir, that in most places the local fancy has run riot at some period and has left a good crop of absurdities and impossibilities behind it?”

I acquiesced warmly, for I felt touched by the good priest’s desire to explain matters, and to hold his own people blameless for crude ideas which he did not share. He went on:—

“It is a queer thing that men must be always putting abstract ideas into concrete shape. No doubt there have been some strange matters regarding this mountain that they’ve been talking about—the Shifting Bog, for instance; and as the people could not account for it in any way that they can understand, they knocked up a legend about it. Indeed, to be just to them, the legend is a very old one, and is mentioned in a manuscript of the twelfth century. But somehow it was lost sight of till about a hundred years ago, when the loss of the treasure-chest from the French invasion at Killala set all the imaginations of the people at work, from Donegal to Cork, and they fixed the Hill of the Lost Gold as the spot where the money was to be found. There is not a word of fact in the story from beginning to end, and”—here he gave a somewhat stern glance round the room—“I’m a little ashamed to hear so much chat and nonsense given to a strange gentleman like as if it was so much gospel. However, you mustn’t be too hard in your thoughts on the poor people here, sir, for they’re good people—none better in all Ireland—in all the world for that—but they talk too free to do themselves justice.”

All those present were silent for awhile. Old Moynahan was the first to speak.

“Well, Father Pether, I don’t say nothin’ about Saint Pathrick an’ the shnakes, meself, because I don’t know nothin’ about them; but I know that me own father tould me that he seen the Frinchmin wid his own eyes crossin’ the sthrame below, an’ facin’ up the mountain. The moon was risin’ in the west, an’ the hill threw a big shadda. There was two min an’ two horses, an’ they had a big box on a gun carriage. Me father seen them cross the sthrame. The load was so heavy that the wheels sunk in the clay, an’ the min had to pull at them to git them up again. An’ didn’t he see the marks iv the wheels in the ground the very nixt day?”

“Bartholomew Moynahan, are you telling the truth?” interrupted the priest, speaking sternly.

“Throth an I am, Father Pether; divil a word iv a lie in all I’ve said.”

“Then how is it you’ve never told a word of this before?”

“But I have tould it, Father Pether. There’s more nor wan here now what has heered me tell it; but they wor tould as a saycret!”

“Thrue for ye!” came the chorus of almost every person in the room. The unanimity was somewhat comic and caused amongst them a shamefaced silence, which lasted quite several seconds. The pause was not wasted, for by this time Mrs. Kelligan had brewed another jug of punch, and glasses were replenished. This interested the little crowd and they entered afresh into the subject. As for myself, however, I felt strangely uncomfortable. I could not quite account for it in any reasonable way.

I suppose there must be an instinct in men as well as in the lower orders of animal creation—I felt as though there were a strange presence near me.

I quietly looked round. Close to where I sat, on the sheltered side of the house, was a little window built in the deep recess of the wall, and, further, almost obliterated by the shadow of the priest as he sat close to the fire. Pressed against the empty lattice, where the glass had once been, I saw the face of a man—a dark, forbidding face it seemed in the slight glimpse I caught of it. The profile was towards me, for he was evidently listening intently, and he did not see me. Old Moynahan went on with his story:—

“Me father hid behind a whin bush, an’ lay as close as a hare in his forrum. The min seemed suspicious of bein’ seen and they looked carefully all round for the sign of anywan. Thin they started up the side of the hill; an’ a cloud came over the moon so that for a bit me father could see nothin’. But prisintly he seen the two min up on the side of the hill at the south, near Joyce’s mearin’. Thin they disappeared agin, an’ prisintly he seen the horses an’ the gun carriage an’ all up in the same place, an’ the moonlight sthruck thim as they wint out iv the shadda; and men an’ horses an’ gun carriage an’ chist an’ all wint round to the back iv the hill at the west an’ disappeared. Me father waited a minute or two to make sure, an’ thin he run round as hard as he could an’ hid behind the projectin’ rock at the enthrance iv the Shleenanaher, an’ there foreninst him! right up the hill side he seen two min carryin’ the chist, an’ it nigh weighed thim down. But the horses an’ the gun carriage was nowhere to be seen. Well! me father was stealin’ out to folly thim, when he loosened a sthone an’ it clattered down through the rocks at the Shnake’s Pass wid a noise like a dhrum, an’ the two min sot down the chist an’ they turned; an’ whin they seen me father one of them runs at him, and he turned an’ run. An’ thin another black cloud crossed the moon; but me father knew ivery foot of the mountain side, and he run on through the dark. He heerd the footsteps behind him for a bit, but they seemed to get fainter an’ fainter; but he niver stopped runnin’ till he got to his own cabin.—An’ that was the last he iver see iv the men or the horses or the chist. Maybe they wint into the air or the say, or the mountain; but anyhow they vanished, and from that day to this no sight or sound or word iv them was ever known!”

There was a universal, ‘Oh!’ of relief as he concluded, whilst he drained his glass.

I looked round again at the little window—but the dark face was gone.

Then there arose a perfect babble of sounds. All commented on the story, some in Irish, some in English, and some in a speech, English indeed, but so purely and locally idiomatic that I could only guess at what was intended to be conveyed. The comment generally took the form that two men were to be envied, one of them, the gombeen man, Murdock, who owned a portion of the western side of the hill, the other one, Joyce, who owned another section of the same aspect.

In the midst of the buzz of conversation the clattering of hoofs was heard. There was a shout, and the door opened again and admitted a stalwart stranger of some fifty years of age, with a strong, determined face, with kindly eyes, well dressed but wringing wet, and haggard, and seemingly disturbed in mind. One arm hung useless by his side.

“Here’s one of them!” said Father Peter.

“God save all here,” said the man as he entered.

Room was made for him at the fire. He no sooner came near it and tasted the heat than a cloud of steam arose from him.

“Man! but ye’re wet,” said Mrs. Kelligan. “One’d think ye’d been in the lake beyant!”

“So I have,” he answered, “worse luck! I rid all the way from Galway this blessed day to be here in time, but the mare slipped coming down Curragh Hill and threw me over the bank into the lake. I wor in the wather nigh three hours before I could get out, for I was foreninst the Curragh Rock an’ only got a foothold in a chink, an’ had to hold on wid me one arm for I fear the other is broke.”

“Dear! dear! dear!” interrupted the woman. “Sthrip yer coat off, acushla, an’ let us see if we can do anythin’.”

He shook his head, as he answered:—

“Not now, there’s not a minute to spare. I must get up the Hill at once. I should have been there be six o’clock. But I mayn’t be too late yit. The mare has broke down entirely. Can any one here lend me a horse?”

There was no answer till Andy spoke:—

“Me mare is in the shtable, but this gintleman has me an’ her for the day, an’ I have to lave him at Carnaclif to-night.”

Here I struck in:—

“Never mind me, Andy! If you can help this gentleman, do so: I’m better off here than driving through the storm. He wouldn’t want to go on, with a broken arm, if he hadn’t good reason!”

The man looked at me with grateful eagerness:—

“Thank yer honour, kindly. It’s a rale gintleman ye are! An’ I hope ye’ll never be sorry for helpin’ a poor fellow in sore throuble.”

“What’s wrong, Phelim?” asked the priest. “Is there anything troubling you that any one here can get rid of?”

“Nothin’, Father Pether, thank ye kindly. The throuble is me own intirely, an’ no wan here could help me. But I must see Murdock to-night.”

There was a general sigh of commiseration; all understood the situation.

“Musha!” said old Dan Moriarty, sotto voce. “An’ is that the way of it! An’ is he too in the clutches iv that wolf? Him that we all thought was so warrum. Glory be to God! but it’s a quare wurrld it is; an’ it’s few there is in it that is what they seems. Me poor frind! is there any way I can help ye? I have a bit iv money by me that yer welkim to the lend iv av ye want it.”

The other shook his head gratefully:—

“Thank ye kindly, Dan, but I have the money all right; it’s only the time I’m in trouble about!”

“Only the time! me poor chap! It’s be time that the divil helps Black Murdock an’ the likes iv him, the most iv all! God be good to ye if he has got his clutch on yer back, an’ has time on his side, for ye’ll want it!”

“Well! anyhow, I must be goin’ now. Thank ye kindly, neighbours all. When a man’s in throuble, sure the goodwill of his frinds is the greatest comfort he can have.”

“All but one, remember that! all but one!” said the priest.

“Thank ye kindly, Father, I shan’t forget. Thank ye Andy: an’ you, too, young sir, I’m much beholden to ye. I hope, some day, I may have it to do a good turn for ye in return. Thank ye kindly again, and good night.” He shook my hand warmly, and was going to the door, when old Dan said:—

“An’ as for that black-jawed ruffian, Murdock—” He paused, for the door suddenly opened, and a harsh voice said:—

“Murtagh Murdock is here to answer for himself!”—It was my man at the window.

There was a sort of paralyzed silence in the room, through which came the whisper of one of the old women:—

“Musha! talk iv the divil!”

Joyce’s face grew very white; one hand instinctively grasped his riding switch, the other hung uselessly by his side. Murdock spoke:—

“I kem here expectin’ to meet Phelim Joyce. I thought I’d save him the throuble of comin’ wid the money.” Joyce said in a husky voice:—

“What do ye mane? I have the money right enough here. I’m sorry I’m a bit late, but I had a bad accident—bruk me arrum, an’ was nigh dhrownded in the Curragh Lake. But I was goin’ up to ye at once, bad as I am, to pay ye yer money, Murdock.” The Gombeen Man interrupted him:—

“But it isn’t to me ye’d have to come, me good man. Sure, it’s the sheriff, himself, that was waitin’ for ye’, an’ whin ye didn’t come”—here Joyce winced; the speaker smiled—“he done his work.”

“What wurrk, acushla?” asked one of the women. Murdock answered slowly:—

“He sould the lease iv the farrum known as the Shleenanaher in open sale, in accordance wid the terrums of his notice, duly posted, and wid warnin’ given to the houldher iv the lease.”

There was a long pause. Joyce was the first to speak:—

“Ye’re jokin’, Murdock. For God’s sake say ye’re jokin’! Ye tould me yerself that I might have time to git the money. An’ ye tould me that the puttin’ me farrum up for sale was only a matther iv forrum to let me pay ye back in me own way. Nay! more, ye asked me not to te tell any iv the neighbours, for fear some iv them might want to buy some iv me land. An’ it’s niver so, that whin ye got me aff to Galway to rise the money, ye went on wid the sale, behind me back—wid not a soul by to spake for me or mine—an’ sould up all I have! No! Murtagh Murdock, ye’re a hard man I know, but ye wouldn’t do that! Ye wouldn’t do that!”

Murdock made no direct reply to him, but said seemingly to the company generally:—

“I ixpected to see Phelim Joyce at the sale to-day, but as I had some business in which he was consarned, I kem here where I knew there’d be neighbours—an’ sure so there is.”

He took out his pocket-book and wrote names, “Father Pether Ryan, Daniel Moriarty, Bartholomew Moynahan, Andhrew McGlown, Mrs. Katty Kelligan—that’s enough! I want ye all to see what I done. There’s nothin’ undherhand about me! Phelim Joyce, I give ye formial notice that yer land was sould an’ bought be me, for ye broke yer word to repay me the money lint ye before the time fixed. Here’s the Sheriff’s assignmint, an’ I tell ye before all these witnesses that I’ll proceed with ejectment on title at wanst.”

All in the room were as still as statues. Joyce was fearfully still and pale, but when Murdock spoke the word “ejectment” he seemed to wake in a moment to frenzied life. The blood flushed up in his face and he seemed about to do something rash; but with a great effort he controlled himself and said:—

“Mr. Murdock, ye won’t be too hard. I got the money to-day—it’s here—but I had an accident that delayed me. I was thrown into the Curragh Lake and nigh drownded an’ me arrum is bruk. Don’t be so close as an hour or two—ye’ll never be sorry for it. I’ll pay ye all, and more, and thank ye into the bargain all me life; ye’ll take back the paper, won’t ye, for me childhren’s sake—for Norah’s sake?”

He faltered; the other answered with an evil smile:—

“Phelim Joyce, I’ve waited years for this moment—don’t ye know me betther nor to think I would go back on meself whin I have shtarted on a road? I wouldn’t take yer money, not if ivery pound note was spread into an acre and cut up in tin-pound notes. I want yer land—I have waited for it, an’ I mane to have it!—Now don’t beg me any more, for I won’t go back—an’ tho’ its many a grudge I owe ye, I square them all before the neighbours be refusin’ yer prayer. The land is mine, bought be open sale; an’ all the judges an’ coorts in Ireland can’t take it from me! An’ what do ye say to that now, Phelim Joyce?”

The tortured man had been clutching the ash sapling which he had used as a riding whip, and from the nervous twitching of his fingers I knew that something was coming. And it came; for, without a word, he struck the evil face before him—struck as quick as a flash of lightning—such a blow that the blood seemed to leap out round the stick, and a vivid welt rose in an instant. With a wild, savage cry the Gombeen Man jumped at him; but there were others in the room as quick, and before another blow could be struck on either side both men were grasped by strong hands and held back.

Murdock’s rage was tragic. He yelled, like a wild beast, to be let get at his opponent. He cursed and blasphemed so outrageously that all were silent, and only the stern voice of the priest was heard:—

“Be silent Murtagh Murdock! Aren’t you afraid that the God overhead will strike you dead? With such a storm as is raging as a sign of His power, you are a foolish man to tempt Him.”

The man stopped suddenly, and a stern dogged sullenness took the place of his passion. The priest went on:—

“As for you, Phelim Joyce, you ought to be ashamed of yourself; ye’re not one of my people, but I speak as your own clergyman would if he were here. Only this day has the Lord seen fit to spare you from a terrible death; and yet you dare to go back of His mercy with your angry passion. You had cause for anger—or temptation to it, I know—but you must learn to kiss the chastening rod, not spurn it. The Lord knows what He is doing for you as for others, and it may be that you will look back on this day in gratitude for His doing, and in shame for your own anger. Men, hold off your hands—let those two men go; they’ll quarrel no more—before me at any rate, I hope.”

The men drew back. Joyce held his head down, and a more despairing figure or a sadder one I never saw. He turned slowly away, and leaning against the wall put his face between his hands and sobbed. Murdock scowled, and the scowl gave place to an evil smile as looking all around he said:—

“Well, now that me work is done, I must be gettin’ home.”

“An’ get some wan to iron that mark out iv yer face,” said Dan. Murdock turned again and glared around him savagely as he hissed out:—

“There’ll be iron for some one before I’m done. Mark me well! I’ve never gone back or wakened yit whin I promised to have me own turn. There’s thim here what’ll rue this day yit! If I am the shnake on the hill—thin beware the shnake. An’ for him what shtruck me, he’ll be in bitther sorra for it yit—him an’ his!” He turned his back and went to the door.

“Stop!” said the priest. “Murtagh Murdock, I have a word to say to you—a solemn word of warning. Ye have to-day acted the part of Ahab towards Naboth the Jezreelite; beware of his fate! You have coveted your neighbour’s goods—you have used your power without mercy; you have made the law an engine of oppression. Mark me! It was said of old that what measure men meted should be meted out to them again. God is very just. ‘Be not deceived, God is not mocked. For what things a man shall sow, those also shall he reap.’ Ye have sowed the wind this day—beware lest you reap the whirlwind! Even as God visited his sin upon Ahab the Samarian, and as He has visited similar sins on others in His own way—so shall He visit yours on you. You are worse than the land-grabber—worse than the man who only covets. Saintough is a virtue compared with your act! Remember the story of Naboth’s vineyard, and the dreadful end of it. Don’t answer me! Go and repent if you can, and leave sorrow and misery to be comforted by others—unless you wish to undo your wrong yourself. If you don’t—then remember the curse that may come upon you yet!”

Without a word Murdock opened the door and went out, and a little later we heard the clattering of his horse’s feet on the rocky road to Shleenanaher.

When it was apparent to all that he was really gone a torrent of commiseration, sympathy and pity broke over Joyce. The Irish nature is essentially emotional, and a more genuine and stronger feeling I never saw. Not a few had tears in their eyes, and one and all were manifestly deeply touched. The least moved was, to all appearance, poor Joyce himself. He seemed to have pulled himself together, and his sterling manhood and courage and pride stood by him. He seemed, however, to yield to the kindly wishes of his friends; and when we suggested that his hurt should be looked to, he acquiesced:—

“Yes, if you will. Betther not go home to poor Norah and distress her with it. Poor child! she’ll have enough to bear without that.”

His coat was taken off, and between us we managed to bandage the wound. The priest, who had some surgical knowledge, came to the conclusion that there was only a simple fracture. He splinted and bandaged the arm, and we all agreed that it would be better for Joyce to wait until the storm was over before starting for home. Andy said he could take him on the car, as he knew the road well, and that, as it was partly on the road to Carnaclif, we should only have to make a short detour and would pass the house of the doctor, by whom the arm could be properly attended to.

So we sat around the fire again, whilst, without, the storm howled and the fierce gusts which swept the valley seemed at times as if they would break in the door, lift off the roof, or in some way annihilate the time-worn cabin which gave us shelter.

There could, of course, be only one subject of conversation now, and old Dan simply interpreted the public wish, when he said:—

“Tell us, Phelim, sure we’re all friends here! how Black Murdock got ye in his clutches? Sure any wan of us would get you out of thim if he could.”

There was a general acquiescence. Joyce yielded himself, and said:—

“Let me thank ye, neighbours all, for yer kindness to me and mine this sorraful night. Well! I’ll say no more about that; but I’ll tell ye how it was that Murdock got me into his power. Ye know that boy of mine, Eugene?”

“Oh! and he’s the fine lad, God bless him! an’ the good lad too!”—this from the women.

“Well! ye know too that he got on so well whin I sint him to school that Dr. Walsh recommended me to make an ingineer of him. He said he had such promise that it was a pity not to see him get the right start in life, and he gave me, himself, a letther to Sir George Henshaw, the great ingineer. I wint and seen him, and he said he would take the boy. He tould me that there was a big fee to be paid, but I was not to throuble about that—at any rate, that he himself didn’t want any fee, and he would ask his partner if he would give up his share too. But the latther was hard up for money. He said he couldn’t give up all fee, but that he would take half the fee, provided it was paid down in dhry money. Well! the regular fee to the firm was five hundhred pounds, and as Sir George had giv up half an’ only half th’ other half was to be paid, that was possible. I hadn’t got more’n a few pounds by me—for what wid dhrainin’ and plantin’ and fencin’ and the payin’ the boy’s schoolin’, and the girl’s at the Nuns’ in Galway, it had put me to the pin iv me collar to find the money up to now. But I didn’t like to let the boy lose his chance in life for want of an effort, an’ I put me pride in me pocket an’ kem an’ asked Murdock for the money. He was very smooth an’ nice wid me—I know why now—an’ promised he would give it at wanst if I would give him security on me land. Sure he joked an’ laughed wid me, an’ was that cheerful that I didn’t misthrust him. He tould me it was only forrums I was signin’ that’d never be used”—— Here Dan Moriarty interrupted him:—

“What did ye sign, Phelim?”

“There wor two papers. Wan was a writin’ iv some kind, that in considheration iv the money lent an’ his own land—which I was to take over if the money wasn’t paid at the time appointed—he was to get me lease from me: an’ the other was a power of attorney to Enther Judgment for the amount if the money wasn’t paid at the right time. I thought I was all safe as I could repay him in the time named, an’ if the worst kem to the worst I might borry the money from some wan else—for the lease is worth the sum tin times over—an’ repay him. Well! what’s the use of lookin’ back, anyhow! I signed the papers—that was a year ago, an’ one week. An’ a week ago the time was up!” He gulped down a sob, and went on:—

“Well! ye all know the year gone has been a terrible bad wan, an’ as for me it was all I could do to hould on—to make up the money was impossible. Thrue the lad cost me next to nothin’, for he arned his keep be exthra work, an’ the girl, Norah, kem home from school and laboured wid me, an’ we saved every penny we could. But it was all no use!—we couldn’t get the money together anyhow. Thin we had the misfortin wid the cattle that ye all know of; an’ three horses, that I sould in Dublin, up an’ died before the time I guaranteed them free from sickness.” Here Andy struck in:—

“Thrue for ye! Sure there was some dhreadful disordher in Dublin among the horse cattle, intirely; an’ even Misther Docther Perfesshinal Ferguson himself couldn’t git undher it!” Joyce went on:—

“An’ as the time grew nigh I began to fear, but Murdock came down to see me whin I was alone, an’ tould me not to throuble about the money an’ not to mind about the sheriff, for he had to give him notice. ‘An’,’ says he, ‘I wouldn’t, if I was you, tell Norah anythin’ about it, for it might frighten the girl—for weemin is apt to take to heart things like that that’s only small things to min like us.‘ An’ so, God forgive me, I believed him; an’ I niver tould me child anything about it—even whin I got the notice from the sheriff. An’ whin the Notice tellin’ of the sale was posted up on me land, I tuk it down meself so that the poor child wouldn’t be frightened—God help me!” He broke down for a bit, but then went on:—

“But somehow I wasn’t asy in me mind, an’ whin the time iv the sale dhrew nigh I couldn’t keep it to meself any longer, an’ I tould Norah. That was only yisterday, and look at me to-day! Norah agreed wid me that we shouldn’t trust the Gombeen, an’ she sent me off to the Galway Bank to borry the money. She said I was an honest man an’ farmed me own land, and that the bank might lind the money on it. An’ sure enough whin I wint there this mornin’ be appointment, wid the Coadjuthor himself to inthroduce me, though he didn’t know why I wanted the money—that was Norah’s idea, and the Mother Superior settled it for her—the manager, who is a nice gintleman, tould me at wanst that I might have the money on me own note iv hand. I only gave him a formal writin’, an’ I took away the money. Here it is in me pocket in good notes; they’re wet wid the lake, but I’m thankful to say all safe. But it’s too late, God help me!” Here he broke down for a minute, but recovered himself with an effort:—

“Anyhow the bank that thrusted me musn’t be wronged. Back the money goes to Galway as soon as iver I can get it there. If I am a ruined man I needn’t be a dishonest wan! But poor Norah! God help her! it will break her poor heart.”

There was a spell of silence only broken by sympathetic moans. The first to speak was the priest.

“Phelim Joyce, I told you a while ago, in the midst of your passion, that God knows what He is doin’, and works in His own way. You’re an honest man, Phelim, and God knows it, and, mark me, He won’t let you nor yours suffer. ‘I have been young,’ said the Psalmist, ‘and now am old; and I have not seen the just forsaken, nor his seed seeking bread.’ Think of that, Phelim!—may it comfort you and poor Norah. God bless her! but she’s the good girl. You have much to be thankful for, with a daughter like her to comfort you at home and take the place of her poor mother, who was the best of women; and with such a boy as Eugene, winnin’ name and credit, and perhaps fame to come, even in England itself. Thank God for His many mercies, Phelim, and trust Him.”

There was a dead silence in the room. The stern man rose, and coming over took the priest’s hand.

“God bless ye, Father!” he said, “it’s the true comforter ye are.”

The scene was a most touching one; I shall never forget it. The worst of the poor man’s trouble seemed now past. He had faced the darkest hour; he had told his trouble, and was now prepared to make the best of everything—for the time at least—for I could not reconcile to my mind the idea that that proud, stern man, would not take the blow to heart for many a long day, that it might even embitter his life.

Old Dan tried comfort in a practical way by thinking of what was to be done. Said he:—

“Iv course, Phelim, it’s a mighty throuble to give up yer own foine land an’ take Murdock’s bleak shpot instead, but I daresay ye will be able to work it well enough. Tell me, have ye signed away all the land, or only the lower farm? I mane, is the Cliff Fields yours or his?”

Here was a gleam of comfort evidently to the poor man. His face lightened as he replied:—

“Only the lower farm, thank God! Indeed, I couldn’t part wid the Cliff Fields, for they don’t belong to me—they are Norah’s, that her poor mother left her—they wor settled on her, whin we married, be her father, and whin he died we got them. But, indeed, I fear they’re but small use be themselves; shure there’s no wather in them at all, savin’ what runs off me ould land; an’ if we have to carry wather all the way down the hill from—from me new land”—this was said with a smile, which was a sturdy effort at cheerfulness—“it will be but poor work to raise anythin’ there—ayther shtock or craps. No doubt but Murdock will take away the sthrame iv wather that runs there now. He’ll want to get the cliff lands, too, I suppose.”

I ventured to ask a question:—

“How do your lands lie compared with Mr. Murdock’s?”

There was bitterness in his tone as he answered, in true Irish fashion:

“Do you mane me ould land, or me new?”

“The lands that were—that ought still to be yours,” I answered.

He was pleased at the reply, and his face softened as he replied:—

“Well, the way of it is this. We two owns the West side of the hill between us. Murdock’s land—I’m spakin’ iv them as they are, till he gets possession iv mine—lies at the top iv the hill; mine lies below. My land is the best bit on the mountain, while the Gombeen’s is poor soil, with only a few good patches here and there. Moreover, there is another thing. There is a bog which is high up the hill, mostly on his houldin’, but my land is free from bog, except one end of the big bog, an’ a stretch of dry turf, the best in the counthry, an’ wid’ enough turf to last for a hundhred years, it’s that deep.”

Old Dan joined in:—

“Thrue enough! that bog of the Grombeen’s isn’t much use anyhow. It’s rank and rotten wid wather. Whin it made up its mind to sthay, it might have done betther!”

“The bog? Made up its mind to stay! What on earth do you mean?” I asked. I was fairly puzzled.

“Didn’t ye hear talk already,” said Dan, “of the shiftin’ bog on the mountain?”

“I did.”

“Well, that’s it! It moved an’ moved an’ moved longer than anywan can remimber. Me grandfather wanst tould me that whin he was a gossoon it wasn’t nigh so big as it was when he tould me. It hasn’t shifted in my time, and I make bould to say that it has made up its mind to settle down where it is. Ye must only make the best of it, Phelim. I daresay ye will turn it to some account.”

“I’ll try what I can do, anyhow. I don’t mane to fould me arms an’ sit down op-pawsit me property an’ ate it!” was the brave answer.

For myself, the whole idea was most interesting. I had never before even heard of a shifting bog, and I determined to visit it before I left this part of the country.

By this time the storm was beginning to abate. The rain had ceased, and Andy said we might proceed on our journey. So after a while we were on our way; the wounded man and I sitting on one side of the car, and Andy on the other. The whole company came out to wish us God-speed, and with such comfort as good counsel and good wishes could give we ventured into the inky darkness of the night.

Andy was certainly a born car-driver. Not even the darkness, the comparative strangeness of the road, or the amount of whisky-punch which he had on board could disturb his driving in the least; he went steadily on. The car rocked and swayed and bumped, for the road was a bye one, and in but poor condition—but Andy and the mare went on alike unmoved. Once or twice only, in a journey of some three miles of winding bye-lanes, crossed and crossed again by lanes or water-courses, did he ask the way. I could not tell which was roadway and which water-way, for they were all water-courses at present, and the darkness was profound. Still, both Andy and Joyce seemed to have a sense lacking in myself, for now and again they spoke of things which I could not see at all. As, for instance, when Andy asked:—

“Do we go up or down where the road branches beyant?” Or again: “I disremimber, but is that Micky Dolan’s ould apple three, or didn’t he cut it down? an’ is it Tim’s fornent us on the lift?”

Presently we turned to the right, and drove up a short avenue towards a house. I knew it to be a house by the light in the windows, for shape it had none. Andy jumped down and knocked, and after a short colloquy, Joyce got down and went into the Doctor’s house. I was asked to go too, but thought it better not to, as it would only have disturbed the Doctor in his work; and so Andy and I possessed our souls in patience until Joyce came out again, with his arm in a proper splint. And then we resumed our journey through the inky darkness.

However, after a while either there came more light into the sky, or my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, for I thought that now and again I beheld “men as trees walking.”

Presently something dark and massive seemed outlined in the sky before us—a blackness projected on a darkness—and, said Andy, turning to me:—

“That’s Knockcalltecrore; we’re nigh the foot iv it now, and pretty shortly we’ll be at the enthrance iv the boreen, where Misther Joyce’ll git aff.”

We plodded on for a while, and the hill before us seemed to overshadow whatever glimmer of light there was, for the darkness grew more profound than ever; then Andy turned to my companion:—

“Sure, isn’t that Miss Norah I see sittin’ on the shtyle beyant?” I looked eagerly in the direction in which he evidently pointed, but for the life of me I could see nothing.

“No! I hope not,” said the father, hastily. “She’s never come out in the shtorm. Yes! It is her, she sees us.”

Just then there came a sweet sound down the lane:—

“Is that you, father?”

“Yes! my child; but I hope you’ve not been out in the shtorm.”

“Only a bit, father; I was anxious about you. Is it all right, father; did you get what you wanted?” She had jumped off the stile and had drawn nearer to us, and she evidently saw me, and went on in a changed and shyer voice:-

“Oh! I beg your pardon, I did not see you had a stranger with you.”

This was all bewildering to me; I could hear it all—and a sweeter voice I never heard—but yet I felt like a blind man, for not a thing could I see, whilst each of the three others was seemingly as much at ease as in the daylight.

“This gentleman has been very kind to me, Norah. He has given me a seat on his car, and indeed he’s come out of his way to lave me here.”

“I am sure we’re all grateful to you, sir; but, father, where is your horse? Why are you on a car at all? Father, I hope you haven’t met with any accident—I have been so fearful for you all the day.” This was spoken in a fainter voice; had my eyes been of service, I was sure I would have seen her grow pale.

“Yes, my darlin’, I got a fall on the Curragh Hill, but I’m all right. Norah dear! Quick, quick! catch her, she’s faintin’!—my God! I can’t stir!”

I jumped off the car in the direction of the voice, but my arms sought the empty air. However, I heard Andy’s voice beside me:—

“All right! I have her. Hould up, Miss Norah; yer dada’s all right, don’t ye see him there, sittin’ on me car. All right, sir, she’s a brave girrul! she hasn’t fainted.”

“I am all right,” she murmured, faintly; “but, father, I hope you are not hurt?”

“Only a little, my darlin’, just enough for ye to nurse me a while; I daresay a few days will make me all right again. Thank ye, Andy; steady now, till I get down; I’m feelin’ a wee bit stiff.” Andy evidently helped him to the ground.

“Good night, Andy, and good night you too, sir, and thank you kindly for your goodness to me all this night. I hope I’ll see you again.” He took my hand in his uninjured one, and shook it warmly.

“Good night,” I said, and “good-bye: I am sure I hope we shall meet again.”

Another hand took mine as he relinquished it—a warm, strong one—and a sweet voice said, shyly:—

“Good night, sir, and thank you for your kindness to father.”

I faltered “Good night,” as I raised my hat; the aggravation of the darkness at such a moment was more than I could equably bear. We heard them pass up the boreen, and I climbed on the car again.

The night seemed darker than ever as we turned our steps towards Carnaclif, and the journey was the dreariest one I had ever taken. I had only one thought which gave me any pleasure, but that was a pretty constant one through the long miles of damp, sodden road—the warm hand and the sweet voice coming out of the darkness, and all in the shadow of that mysterious mountain, which seemed to have become a part of my life. The words of the old story-teller came back to me again and again:—

“The Hill can hould tight enough! A man has raysons—sometimes wan thing and sometimes another—but the Hill houlds him all the same!”

And a vague wonder grew upon me as to whether it could ever hold me, and how!

Some six weeks elapsed before my visits to Irish friends were completed, and I was about to return home. I had had everywhere a hearty welcome; the best of sport of all kinds, and an appetite beyond all praise—and one pretty well required to tackle with any show of success the excellent food and wine put before me. The west of Ireland not only produces good viands in plenty and of the highest excellence, but there is remaining a keen recollection, accompanied by tangible results, of the days when open house and its hospitable accompaniments made wine merchants prosperous—at the expense of their customers.

In the midst of all my pleasure, however, I could not shake from my mind—nor, indeed, did I want to—the interest which Shleenanaher and its surroundings had created in me. Nor did the experience of that strange night, with the sweet voice coming through the darkness in the shadow of the hill, become dim with the passing of the time. When I look back and try to analyse myself and my feelings with the aid of the knowledge and experience of life received since then, I think that I must have been in love. I do not know if philosophers have ever undertaken to say whether it is possible for a human being to be in love in the abstract—whether the something which the heart has a tendency to send forth needs a concrete objective point! It may be so; the swarm of bees goes from the parent hive with only the impulse of going—its settling is a matter of chance. At any rate I may say that no philosopher, logician, metaphysician, psychologist, or other thinker, of whatsoever shade of opinion, ever held that a man could be in love with a voice.

True that the unknown has a charm—omne ignotum pro magnifico. If my heart did not love, at least it had a tendency to worship. Here I am on solid ground; for which of us but can understand the feelings of those men of old in Athens, who devoted their altars “To The Unknown God?” I leave the philosophers to say how far apart, or how near, are love and worship; which is first in historical sequence, which is greatest or most sacred! Being human, I cannot see any grace or beauty in worship without love.

However, be the cause what it might, I made up my mind to return home viâ Carnaclif. To go from Clare to Dublin by way of Galway and Mayo is to challenge opinion as to one’s motive. I did not challenge opinion, I distinctly avoided doing so, and I am inclined to think that there was more of Norah than of Shleenanaher in the cause of my reticence. I could bear to be “chaffed” about a superstitious feeling respecting a mountain, or I could endure the same process regarding a girl of whom I had no high ideal, no sweet illusive memory.

I would never complete the argument, even to myself—then; later on, the cause or subject of it varied!

It was not without a certain conflict of feelings that I approached Carnaclif, even though on this occasion I approached it from the South, whereas on my former visit I had come from the North. I felt that the time went miserably slowly, and yet nothing would have induced me to admit so much. I almost regretted that I had come, even whilst I was harrowed with thoughts that I might not be able to arrive at all at Knockcalltecrore. At times I felt as though the whole thing had been a dream; and again as though the romantic nimbus with which imagination had surrounded and hallowed all things must pass away and show that my unknown beings and my facts of delicate fantasy were but stern and vulgar realities.

The people at the little hotel made me welcome with the usual effusive hospitable intention of the West. Indeed, I was somewhat nettled at how well they remembered me, as for instance when the buxom landlady said:—

“I’m glad to be able to tell ye, sir, that yer carman, Andy Sullivan, is here now. He kem with a commercial from Westport to Roundwood, an’ is on his way back, an’ hopin’ for a return job. I think ye’ll be able to make a bargain with him if ye wish.”

I made to this kindly speech a hasty and, I felt, an ill-conditioned reply, to the effect that I was going to stay in the neighbourhood for only a few days and would not require the car. I then went to my room, and locked my door muttering a malediction on officious people. I stayed there for some time, until I thought that probably Andy had gone on his way, and then ventured out.

I little knew Andy, however. When I came to the hall, the first person that I saw was the cheerful driver, who came forward to welcome me:—

“Musha! but it’s glad I am to see yer ’an’r. An’ it’ll be the proud man I’ll be to bhring ye back to Westport wid me.”

“I’m sorry Andy,” I began, “that I shall not want you, as I am going to stay in this neighbourhood for a few days.”

“Sthay is it? Begor! but it’s more gladerer shtill I am. Sure the mare wants a rist, an’ it’ll shute her an’ me all to nothin’; an’ thin whilst ye’re here I can be dhrivin’ yer ’an’r out to Shleenanaher. It isn’t far enough to intherfere wid her rist.”

I answered in, I thought, a dignified way—I certainly intended to be dignified:—

“I did not say, Sullivan, that I purposed going out to Shleenanaher or any other place in the neighbourhood.”

“Shure no, yer ’an’r, but I remimber ye said ye’d like to see the Shiftin’ Bog; an’ thin Misther Joyce and Miss Norah is in throuble, and ye might be a comfort to thim.”

“Mr. Joyce! Miss Norah! who are they?” I felt that I was getting red and that the tone of my voice was most unnatural.

Andy’s sole answer was as comical a look as I ever saw, the central object in which was a wink which there was no mistaking. I could not face it, and had to say:

“Oh yes, I remember now! was not that the man we took on the car to a dark mountain?”

“Yes, surr—him and his daughther!”

“His daughter! I do not remember her. Surely we only took him on the car.” Again I felt angry, and with the anger an inward determination not to have Andy or anyone else prying around me when I should choose to visit even such an uncompromising phenomenon as a shifting bog. Andy, like all humourists, understood human nature, and summed up the situation conclusively in his reply—inconsequential though it was:—

“Shure yer ’an’r can thrust me; its blind or deaf an’ dumb I am, an’ them as knows me knows I’m not the man to go back on a young gintleman goin’ to luk at a bog. Sure doesn’t all young min do that same? I’ve been there meself times out iv mind! There’s nothin’ in the wurrld foreninst it! Lukin’ at bogs is the most intherestin’ thin’ I knows.”

There was no arguing with Andy; and as he knew the place and the people, I, then and there, concluded an engagement with him. He was to stay in Carnaclif whilst I wanted him, and then drive me over to Westport.

As I was now fairly launched on the enterprise, I thought it better to lose no time, but arranged to visit the bog early the next morning.

As I was lighting my cigar after dinner that evening Mrs. Keating, my hostess, came in to ask me a favour. She said that there was staying in the house a gentleman who went over every day to Knockcalltecrore, and as she understood that I was going there in the morning, she made bold to ask if I would mind giving a seat on my car to him as he had turned his ancle that day and feared he would not be able to walk. Under the circumstances I could only say “yes,” as it would have been a churlish thing to refuse. Accordingly I gave permission with seeming cheerfulness, but when I was alone my true feelings found vent in muttered grumbling:—“I ought to travel in an ambulance instead of a car.” “I seem never to be able to get near this Shleenanaher without an invalid.” “Once ought to be enough! but it has become the regulation thing now.” “I wish to goodness Andy would hold his infernal tongue—I’d as lief have a detective after me all the time.” “It’s all very well to be a good Samaritan as a luxury—but as a profession it becomes monotonous.” “Confound Andy! I wish I’d never seen him at all.”

This last thought brought me up standing, and set me face to face with my baseless ill-humour. If I had never seen Andy I should never have heard at all of Shleenanaher. I should not have known the legend—I should not have heard Norah’s voice.

“And so,” said I to myself, “this ideal fantasy—this embodiment of a woman’s voice, has a concrete name already. Aye! a concrete name, and a sweet one too.”

And so I took another step on my way to the bog, and lost my ill-humour at the same time. When my cigar was half through and my feelings were proportionately soothed, I strolled into the bar and asked Mrs. Keating as to my companion of the morrow. She told me that he was a young engineer named Sutherland.

“What Sutherland?” I asked. Adding that I had been at school with a Dick Sutherland, who had, I believed, gone into the Irish College of Science.

“Perhaps it’s the same gentleman, sir. This is Mr. Richard Sutherland, and I’ve heerd him say that he was at Stephen’s Green.”

“The same man!” said I, “this is jolly! Tell me, Mrs. Keating, what brings him here?”

“He’s doin’ some work on Knockcalltecrore for Mr. Murdock, some quare thing or another. They do tell me, sir, that it’s a most mystayrious thing, wid poles an’ lines an’ magnets an’ all kinds of divilments. They say that Mr. Murdock is goin’ from off of his head ever since he had the law of poor Phelim Joyce. My! but he’s the decent man, that same Mr. Joyce, an’ the Gombeen has been hard upon him.”

“What was the law suit?” I asked.

“All about a sellin’ his land on an agreement. Mr. Joyce borryed some money, an’ promised if it wasn’t paid back at a certain time that he would swop lands. Poor Joyce met wid an accident comin’ home with the money from Galway an’ was late, an’ when he got home found that the Grombeen had got the sheriff to sell up his land on to him. Mr. Joyce thried it in the Coorts, but now Murdock has got a decree on to him an’ the poor man’ll to give up his fat lands an’ take the Gombeen’s poor ones instead.”