“But what I can do, I will do. I can lift the spell from the omadhaun for one hour, and that hour must be just before cockcrow.”
“Is that the law now?” asked Darby, curiously. Maureen was sobbing, so she couldn’t spake.
“It is,” says the Master of the Good People. “And tonight I’ll sind our spy, Sheelah Maguire, to Norah Costello with the message that if Norah has love enough and courage enough in her heart to stand alone at her thrue lover’s grave in Kilmartin churchyard, tomorrow night an hour before cockcrow, she’ll see him plain and talk with him. And let you two be there,” he says, “to know that I keep me word.”
At that he vanished and they saw him no more that night, nor until two hours afther the next midnight, whin as they were tying the ould horse and cart to the fence outside Kilmartin church, thin they heard him singing. He was sitting on the wall, chanting at the top of his woice a sthrange, wild song, and houlding in his hand a silver-covered noggin. On a fallen tombstone near by lay a white cloth, glimmering in the moonlight, and on the cloth was spread as fine a supper as heart could wish.
So beside the white rows of silent tombs, under the elm-trees and willows, they ate their fill, and Darby would have ate more if close to them they hadn’t heard a long, deep sigh, and caught a glimpse of a tall man, gliding like a shadow into the shadows that hung around the O’Briens’ family vault.
At the same time, standing on the top of the stile which led into the graveyard, a woman’s form was seen wavering in the moonlight.
They watched her coming down the walk betwixt the tombs, her hand on her breast, clutching tight the cloak. Now and thin she’d stand, looking about the while, and shivering in mortal terror at the cry of the owls, and thin she’d flit on and be lost in the shadows; and thin they’d see her run out into the moonlight, where she’d wait agin, gathering courage. At last she came to a strip of soft light before the tomb she knew. Her strength failed her there, and she went down on her knees.
Out of the darkness before her a low, pleading woice called, “Norah! Norah! Don’t be frightened, acushla machree!”
Slowly, slowly, with its arm spread, the dim shape of a man glided out of the shadows. At the same instant the girl rose and gave one cry, as she flung herself on his breast. They could see him bending over her, thin, pouring words like rain into her ears, but what he said they couldn’t hear—Darby thinks he whuspered.
“I wondher, oh, I wondher what he’s telling her in this last hour!” says Maureen.
“It’s aisy to know that,” says Darby; “what should he be telling her but where the crocks of goold are hid.”
“Don’t be watching them, it ain’t dacint,” says the King; “uncultayvation or unpoliteness is ojus; come over here; I’ve a pack of cayrds, Darby,” says he, “and as we have nearly an hour to wait, I challenge you to a game of forty-five.”
“Sure we may as well,” says Darby. “What can’t be cured must be endured.”
With that, me two bould hayroes sat asthride the fallen stone, and hammering the rock hard with their knuckles, played the game. Maureen went and, houlding on to the ivy, knelt at the church wall—it’s praying an’ cryin’, too, I think she was. Small blame to her if she was. All through that hour she imagined the wild promisings of the two poor crachures over be the tomb, and this kept burning the heart out of her.
Just as the first glow of gray broke behind the hills the King stood up and said: “It’s your game, Darby, more be good luck than be good shooting; ’tis time to lave. You know if I’m caught out afther cockcrow I lose all me spells for the day, and besides I’m wisible to any mortal eye. I’m helpless as a baby then. So I think I’ll take the omadhaun and go. The roosthers may crow now any minute,” says he.
The omadhaun, although he couldn’t hear, he felt the charm dhrawing him. He trew a frightened look at the east and held the girl closer. ’Twas their last minute.
“King! King!” says Maureen, running up, “if I brought Sullivan’s goat into Sleive-na-mon, would ye swear to let me out safe agin?”
“Troth, I would indade, I swear be Child Nick!” (’Tis be him the Good People swear.) “I’ll do that same.”
“Then let the omadhaun go home. Get the Good People’s consent and I’ll bring you the goat,” says Maureen.
The King thrembled all over with anxiety and excitement. “Why didn’t you spake sooner? I’m afeard I haven’t time to go to Sleive-na-mon and back before cockcrow,” he stutthered, “and at cockcrow, if the lad was undher the say or in the stars, that spell’d bring him to us, and then he could never agin come out till the Day of Judgment. Howsumever, I’ll go and thry,” he says, houlding tight on to his crown with both hands; and with thim words he vanished.
Be this and be that, it wasn’t two minutes till he was back and wid not a second to spare, ayther.
“Phadrig Oge wants Mrs. Nancy Clancy’s nanny-goat, too. Will ye bring the both of them, Maureen?” he screamed.
“You’re dhriving a hard bargain, King,” cried Darby. “Don’t promise him, Maureen.”
“I will!” cried she.
“Then it’s a bargain!” the fairy shouted, jumping to the top of a headstone. “We all consent,” he says, waving the noggin.
He yelled to the omadhaun. “Go home, Roger O’Brien! Go back to your father’s house and live your life out to its natural ind. The curse is lifted from you, the black spell is
