While Darby spoke, the fairy-man was fixing one stool on top of another undher the window.
“I’ll sit at this window,” says the Master of the Good People, wagging his head threateningly, “and from there I’ll give me ordhers. The throuble he’s thrying to bring on others is the throuble I’ll throuble him with. If he comes dacint, he’ll go dacint; if he comes bothering, he’ll go bothered,” says he.
Faith, thin, your Honour, the King spoke no less than the truth, for at that very minute Terror, as foine a horse as ever followed hounds, was galloping down the starlit road to Darby’s house, and over Terror’s mane bent as foine a horseman as ever took a six-bar gate—Father Cassidy.
On and on through the moonlight they clattered, till they came in sight of Darby’s gate, where, unseen and onwisible, a score of the Good People, with thorns in their fists, lay sniggering and laughing, waiting for the horse. Of course the fairies couldn’t harm the good man himself, but Terror was complately at their marcy.
“We’ll not stop to open the gate, Terror,” says his Riverence, patting the baste’s neck. “I’ll give you a bit of a lift with the bridle-rein, and a touch like that on the flank, and do you clear it, my swallow-bird.”
Well, sir, the priest riz in his stirrups, lifted the rein, and Terror crouched for the spring, whin, with a sudden snort of pain, the baste whirled round and started like the wind back up the road.
His Riverence pulled the horse to its haunches and swung him round once more facing the cottage. Up on his hind feet went Terror and stood crazy for a second, pawing the air, then with a cry of rage and pain in his throat, the baste turned, made a rush for the hedge at the roadside, and cleared it like an arrow.
Now, just beyant the hedge was a bog so thin that the geese wouldn’t walk on it, and so thick that the ducks couldn’t swim in it. Into the middle of that cowld pond Terror fell with a splash and a crash.
That minute the King climbed down from the window splitting with laughter. “Darby,” he says, slapping his knees, “Father Cassidy is floundhering about in the bog outside. He’s not hurt, but he’s mighty cowld and uncomfortable. Do you go and make him promise not to read any prayers this night, then bring him in. Tell him that if he don’t promise, by the piper that played before Moses, he may stay reading his prayers in the bog till morning, for he can’t get out unless some of my people go in and help him!” says the King.
Darby’s heart began hammerin’ agin his ribs as though it were making heavy horseshoes.
“If that’s so, I’m a ruined man!” he says. “I’d give tunty pounds rather than face him now!” says he.
The disthracted lad put his hat on to go out, an’ thin he took it off to stay in. He let a groan out of him that shook all his bones.
“You may save him or lave him,” says the King, turning to the window. “I’m going to lave the priest see in a minute what’s bothering him. If he’s not out of the bog be that time, I’d adwise you to lave the counthry. Maybe you’ll only have a pair of cow’s horns put on ye, but I think ye’ll be kilt,” he says. “My own mind’s aisy. I wash my hands of him!
“That’s the great comfort and adwantage of having your sowl’s salwation fixed and sartin one way or the other,” says the King, peering out. “Whin you do a thing, bad as it is or good as it may be, your mind is still aisy, bekase—” he turned from the window to look at Darby, but the lad was gone out into the moonlight, and was shrinkin’ an’ cringin’ up toward the bog, as though he were going to meet and talk with the ghost of a man he’d murdhered. ’Twas a harsher an’ angrier woice than that of any ghost that came out of a great flopping and splashin’ in the bog.
Father Cassidy sat with his feet dhrawn up on Terror, and the horse was half sunk in the mire. At times he urged Terror over to the bank, an’ just as the baste was raising to step out, with a snort, it’d whirl back agin.
He’d thry another side, but spur as he might, and whip as he would, the horse’d turn shivering back to the middle of the bog.
“Is that you, Darby O’Gill, you vagebone?” cried his Riverence. “Help me out of this to the dhry land so as I can take the life of you!” he cried.
“What right has anyone to go trespassin’ in my bog, mussing it all up an’ spiling it?” says Darby, purtendin’ not to raycognise the priest; “I keep it private for my ducks and geese, and I’ll have the law on you, so I will—Oh, be the powers of pewther, ’tis me own dear Father Cassidy!” he cried.
Father Cassidy, as an answer, raiched for a handful of mud, which he aimed and flung so fair an’ thrue that three days afther Darby was still pulling bits of it from his hair.
“I have a whip I’ll keep private for your own two foine legs!” cried his Riverence; “I’ll taich you to tell lies to the counthry-side about your being with the fairies, and for deludherin’ your own poor wife. I came down this night to eggspose you. But now that’s the laste I’ll do to you!”
“Faith,” says Darby, “if I was with the fairies, ’tis no less than you are this minute, an’ if you eggspose me, I’ll eggspose you!” With that Darby up and tould what was the cause of the whole botheration.
His Riverence, afther the telling, waited not a
