‘I am fond of her,’ said O’Conor.
‘Will you make me a bet of twenty guineas no man comes near her while you’ll be away on the journey?’ said the Captain.
‘I will bet it,’ said O’Conor; and he went away.
There was an old hag who sold small things on the road near the castle, and the lady O’Conor allowed her to sleep up in her room in a big box. The Captain went down on the road to the old hag.
‘For how much will you let me sleep one night in your box?’ said the Captain.
‘For no money at all would I do such a thing,’ said the hag. ‘For ten guineas?’ said the Captain.
‘Not for ten guineas,’ said the hag.
‘For twelve guineas?’ said the Captain.
‘Not for twelve guineas,’ said the hag.
‘For fifteen guineas?’ said the Captain.
‘For fifteen I will do it,’ said the hag.
Then she took him up and hid him in the box. When night came the lady O’Conor walked up into her room, and the Captain watched her through a hole that was in the box. He saw her take off her two rings and put them on a kind of a board that was over her head like a chimney-piece, and take off her clothes, except her shift, and go up into her bed.
As soon as she was asleep the Captain came out of his box, and he had some means of making a light, for he lit the candle. He went over to the bed where she was sleeping without disturbing her at all, or doing any bad thing, and he took the two rings off the board, and blew out the light, and went down again into the box.
He paused for a moment, and a deep sigh of relief rose from the men and women who had crowded in while the story was going on, till the kitchen was filled with people.
As the Captain was coming out of his box, the girls, who had appeared to know no English, stopped their spinning and held their breath with expectation.
The old man went on:
When O’Conor came back the Captain met him, and told him that he had been a night in his wife’s room, and gave him the two rings.
O’Conor gave him the twenty guineas of the bet. Then he went up into the castle, and he took his wife up to look out of the window over the wild ocean. While she was looking he pushed her from behind, and she fell down over the cliff into the sea.
An old woman was on the shore and she saw her falling. She went down then to the surf and pulled her out all wet and in great disorder, and she took the wet clothes off of her, and put on some old rags belonging to herself.
When O’Conor had pushed his wife from the window he went away into the land.
After a while the lady O’Conor went out searching for him, and when she had gone here and there a long time in the country, she heard that he was reaping in a field with sixty men.
She came to the field and she wanted to go in, but the gate-man would not open the gate for her. Then the owner came by and she told him her story. He brought her in, and her husband was there, reaping, but he never gave any sign of knowing her. She showed him to the owner, and he made the man come out and go with his wife.
Then the lady O’Conor took him out on the road where there were horses, and they rode away.
When they came to the place where O’Conor had met the little man, he was there on the road before them.
‘Have you my gold on you?’ said the man.
‘I have not,’ said O’Conor.
‘Then you’ll pay me the flesh off your body,’ said the man.
They went into a house, and a knife was brought, and a clean white cloth was put on the table, and O’Conor was put upon the cloth.
Then the little man was going to strike the lancet into him, when says lady O’Conor, ‘Have you bargained for five pounds of flesh?’
‘For five pounds of flesh,’ said the man.
‘Have you bargained for any drop of his blood?’ said lady O’Conor.
‘For no blood,’ said the man.
‘Cut out the flesh,’ said lady O’Conor, ‘but if you spill one drop of his blood I’ll put that through you.’ And she put a pistol to his head.
The little man went away and they saw no more of him.
When they got home to their castle they made a great supper, and they invited the Captain and the old hag, and the old woman that had pulled the lady O’Conor out of the sea.
After they had eaten well the lady O’Conor began, and she said they would all tell their stories. Then she told how she had been saved from the sea and how she had found her husband.
Then the old woman told her story, the way she had found the lady O’Conor wet, and in great disorder, and had brought her in and put on her some old rags of her own.
The lady O’Conor asked the Captain for his story, but he said they would get no story from him. Then she took her pistol out of her pocket, and she put it on the edge of the table, and she said that anyone that would not tell his story would get a bullet into him.
Then the Captain told the way he had got into the box, and come over to her bed without touching her at all and had taken away the rings.
Then the lady O’Conor took the pistol and shot the hag through the body, and they threw her over the cliff into the sea.
That is my story.
It gave me a strange feeling of wonder to hear this illiterate native of a wet rock in the Atlantic telling a story that is so full of European associations.
The incident of the faithful wife takes us beyond Cymbeline to the sunshine on the Arno, and the gay company who went out from Florence to tell narratives of love. It takes us again to the low vineyards of Würzburg on the Main, where the same tale was told in the Middle Ages, of the ‘Two Merchants and the Faithful Wife of Ruprecht von Würzburg’.
The other portion, dealing with the pound of flesh, has a still wider distribution, reaching from Persia and Egypt to the Gesta Romanorum and the Pecorone of Ser Giovanni, a Florentine notary.
The present union of the two tales has already been found among the Gaels, and there is a somewhat similar version in Campbell’s Popular Tales of the Western Highlands.
Michael walks so fast when I am out with him that I cannot pick my steps, and the sharp-edged fossils which abound in the limestone have cut my shoes to pieces.
The family held a consultation on them last night, and in the end it was decided to make me a pair of pampooties, which I have been wearing today among the rocks.
They consist simply of a piece of raw cowskin, with the hair outside, laced over the toe and round the heel with two ends
