“No. Killaloe.”
“Well, then, you passed the ground where Murroa Wood was in former times. You kem undher Lisnavourra, the steep knob of a hill about a mile above the village here. ’Twas near that Murroa Wood was, and ’twas there Sir Dominick Sarsfield first met the devil, the Lord between us and harm, and a bad meeting it was for him and his.”
I had become interested in the adventure which had occurred in the very scenery which had so greatly attracted me, and my new acquaintance, the little hunchback, was easily entreated to tell me the story, and spoke thus, so soon as we had each resumed his seat:
It was a fine estate when Sir Dominick came into it; and grand doings there was entirely, feasting and fiddling, free quarters for all the pipers in the counthry round, and a welcome for everyone that liked to come. There was wine, by the hogshead, for the quality; and potteen enough to set a town afire, and beer and cidher enough to float a navy, for the boys and girls, and the likes o’ me. It was kep’ up the best part of a month, till the weather broke, and the rain spoilt the sod for the moneen jigs, and the fair of Allybally Killudeen comin’ on they wor obliged to give over their divarsion, and attind to the pigs.
But Sir Dominick was only beginnin’ when they wor lavin’ off. There was no way of gettin’ rid of his money and estates he did not try—what with drinkin’, dicin’, racin’, cards, and all soarts, it was not many years before the estates wor in debt, and Sir Dominick a distressed man. He showed a bold front to the world as long as he could; and then he sould off his dogs, and most of his horses, and gev out he was going to thravel in France, and the like; and so off with him for awhile; and no one in these parts heard tale or tidings of him for two or three years. Till at last quite unexpected, one night there comes a rapping at the big kitchen window. It was past ten o’clock, and old Connor Hanlon, the butler, my grandfather, was sittin’ by the fire alone, warming his shins over it. There was keen east wind blowing along the mountains that night, and whistling cowld enough, through the tops of the trees, and soundin’ lonesome through the long chimneys.
(And the storyteller glanced up at the nearest stack visible from his seat.)
So he wasn’t quite sure of the knockin’ at the window, and up he gets, and sees his master’s face.
My grandfather was glad to see him safe, for it was a long time since there was any news of him; but he was sorry, too, for it was a changed place and only himself and old Juggy Broadrick in charge of the house, and a man in the stables, and it was a poor thing to see him comin’ back to his own like that.
He shook Con by the hand, and says he:
“I came here to say a word to you. I left my horse with Dick in the stable; I may want him again before morning, or I may never want him.”
And with that he turns into the big kitchen, and draws a stool, and sits down to take an air of the fire.
“Sit down, Connor, opposite me, and listen to what I tell you, and don’t be afeard to say what you think.”
He spoke all the time lookin’ into the fire, with his hands stretched over it, and a tired man he looked.
“An’ why should I be afeard, Masther Dominick?” says my grandfather. “Yourself was a good masther to me, and so was your father, rest his sould, before you, and I’ll say the truth, and dar’ the devil, and more than that, for any Sarsfield of Dunoran, much less yourself, and a good right I’d have.”
“It’s all over with me, Con,” says Sir Dominick.
“Heaven forbid!” says my grandfather.
“ ’Tis past praying for,” says Sir Dominick. “The last guinea’s gone; the ould place will follow it. It must be sold, and I’m come here, I don’t know why, like a ghost to have a last look round me, and go off in the dark again.”
And with that he tould him to be sure, in case he should hear of his death, to give the oak box, in the closet off his room, to his cousin, Pat Sarsfield, in Dublin, and the sword and pistols his grandfather carried in Aughrim, and two or three thrifling things of the kind.
And says he, “Con, they say if the divil gives you money overnight, you’ll find nothing but a bagful of pebbles, and chips, and nutshells, in the morning. If I thought he played fair, I’m in the humour to make a bargain with him tonight.”
“Lord forbid!” says my grandfather, standing up, with a start and crossing himself.
“They say the country’s full of men, listin’ sogers for the King o’ France. If I light on one o’ them, I’ll not refuse his offer. How contrary things goes! How long is it since me an Captain Waller fought the jewel at New Castle?”
“Six years, Masther Dominick, and ye broke his thigh with the bullet the first shot.”
“I did, Con,” says he, “and I wish, instead, he had shot me through the heart. Have you any whisky?”
My grandfather took it out of the buffet, and the masther pours out some into a bowl, and drank it off.
“I’ll go out and have a look at my horse,” says he, standing up. There was sort of a stare in his eyes, as he pulled his riding-cloak about him, as if there was something bad in his thoughts.
“Sure, I won’t be a minute running out myself to the stable, and looking after the horse for you myself,” says my
