Only one amongst them all had courage to sit inside Darby’s house waiting the dreadful visitors, and that one was Bob Broderick. What vengeance was in store couldn’t be guessed at all, at all, only it was sure that it was to be more turrible than any yet wreaked on mortal man.
Not in Darby’s house alone was the terror, for in their anger the Good People might lay waste the whole parish. The roads and fields were empty and silent in the darkness. Not a window glimmered with light for miles around. Many a blaggard who hadn’t said a prayer for years was now down on his marrow bones among the dacint members of his family, thumping his craw, and roaring his Pather and Aves.
In Darby’s quiet house, against which the cunning, the power, and the fury of the Good People would first break, you can’t think of half the suffering of Bridget and the childher, as they lay huddled together on the settle-bed; nor of the strain on Bob and Darby, who sat smoking their dudeens and whispering anxiously together.
For some rayson or other the Good People were long in coming. Ten o’clock struck, then eleven, afther that twelve, and not a sound from the outside. The silence and then no sign of any kind had them all just about crazy, when suddenly there fell a sharp rap on the door.
“Millia murther,” whispered Darby, “we’re in for it. They’ve crossed the two rings of holly, and are at the door itself.”
The childher begun to cry and Bridget said her prayers out loud; but no one answered the knock.
“Rap, rap, rap,” on the door, then a pause.
“God save all here!” cried a queer voice from the outside.
Now no fairy would say, “God save all here,” so Darby took heart and opened the door. Who should be standing there but Sheelah Maguire, a spy for the Good People. So angry were Darby and Bob that they snatched her within the threshold, and before she knew it they had her tied hand and foot, wound a cloth around her mouth, and rolled her under the bed. Within the minute a thousand rustling voices sprung from outside. Through the window, in the clear moonlight, Darby marked weeds and grass being trampled by inwisible feet, beyond the farthest ring of holly.
Suddenly broke a great cry. The gap in the first ring was found. Signs were plainly seen of uncountable feet rushing through, and spreading about the nearer wreath. Afther that a howl of madness from the little men and women. Darby had pulled his twine and the trap was closed, with five thousand of the Good People entirely at his mercy.
Princes, princesses, dukes, dukesses, earls, earlesses, and all the quality of Sleive-na-mon were prisoners. Not more than a dozen of the last to come escaped, and they flew back to tell the king.
For an hour they raged. All the bad names ever called to mortal man were given free, but Darby said never a word. “Pickpocket,” “sheep stayler,” “murtherin’ thafe of a blaggard,” were the softest words trun at him.
By an’ by, howsumever, as it begun to grow near to cockcrow, their talk grew a great dale civiler. Then came beggin’, pladin’, promisin’, and enthratin’, but the doors of the house still stayed shut an’ its windows down.
Purty soon Darby’s old rooster, Terry, came down from his perch, yawned, an’ flapped his wings a few times. At that the terror and the screechin’ of the Good People would have melted the heart of a stone.
All of a sudden a fine, clear voice rose from beyant the crowd. The King had come. The other fairies grew still, listening.
“Ye murtherin’ thafe of the world,” says he King grandly, “what are ye doin’ wid my people?”
“Keep a civil tongue in yer head, Brian Connor,” says Darby, sticking his head out the window, “for I’m as good a man as you, any day,” says Darby.
At that minute Terry, the cock, flapped his wings and crowed. In a flash there sprang into full view the crowd of Good People—dukes, earls, princes, quality, and commoners, with their ladies, jammed thick together about the house; every one of them with his head thrown back bawling and crying, and tears as big as pigeon-eggs rouling down his cheeks.
A few feet away, on a straw pile in the barnyard, stood the King, his goold crown tilted on the side of his head, his long green cloak about him, and his rod in his hand, but thremblin’ allover.
In the middle of the crowd, but towering high above them all, stood Maureen McGibney in her cloak of green an’ goold, her purty brown hair fallin’ down on her shoulders, an’ she—the crafty villain—cryin, an’ bawlin’, an’ abusin’ Darby, with the best of them.
“What’ll you have an’ let them go?” says the King.
“First an’ foremost,” says Darby, “take yer spell off that slip of a girl there, an’ send her into the house.”
In a second Maureen was standing inside the door, her both arms about Bob’s neck, and her head on his collarbone.
What they said to aich other, and what they done in the way of embracin’ an’ kissin’ an’ cryin’ I won’t take time in telling you.
“Next,” says Darby, “send back Rosie and the pigs.”
“I expected that,” says the king. And at those words they saw a black bunch coming through the air; in a few seconds Rosie and the three pigs walked into the stable.
“Now,” says Darby, “promise in the name of Ould Nick” (’tis by him the Good People swear) “never to moil nor meddle again with anyone or anything from this parish.”
The King was fair put out by this. Howsomever, he said at last, “You ongrateful scoundhrel, in the name of Ould Nick, I promise.”
“So far, so good,” says Darby, “but the worst is yet to come. Now you must raylase from your spell every soul you’ve stole from this parish; and besides, you must send me ten thousand pounds
