“‘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[Pg 23] 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.”

[Pg 23]

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.

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