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 presert were silent for awhile. Old Moy-nahan 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 any wan. 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 no thin'. 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 bable 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.
CHAPTER III.
The Gombeen Man.
"God save all here," said the man as lie 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 bey ant!"
"So I have," he answered, "worse luck! I rid all the way from Gal way 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 Eock 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 any-thin'."
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 sis 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?"
"No thin', 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
