Two hours and more of the afternoon were spent before The O’Mahony and his new companion next day reached Dunmanway.

The morning had been devoted, for the most part, to church-going, and The O’Mahony’s mind was still confused with a bewildering jumble of candles, bells and embroidered gowns; of boys in frocks swinging little kettles of smoke by long chains; of books printed on one side in English and on the other in an unknown tongue; of strange necessities for standing, kneeling, sitting all together, at different times, for no apparent reason which he could discover, and at no word of command whatever. He meditated upon it all now, as the slow train bumped its wandering way into the west, as upon some novel kind of drill, which it was obviously going to take him a long time to master. He had his moments of despondency at the prospect, until he reflected that if the poorest, least intelligent, hod-carrying Irishman alive knew it all, he ought surely to be able to learn it. This hopeful view gaining predominance at last in his thoughts, he had leisure to look out of the window.

The country through which they passed was for a long distance fairly level, with broad stretches of fair grass-fields and strips of ploughed land, the soil of which seemed richness, itself. The O’Mahony noted this, but was still more interested in the fact that stone was the only building material anywhere in sight. The few large houses, the multitude of cabins, the high fences surrounding residences, the low fences limiting farm lands, even the very gateposts—all were of gray stone, and all as identical in color and aspect as if Ireland contained but a single quarry.

The stone had come to be a very prominent feature in the natural landscape as well, before their journey by rail ended—a cold, wild, hard-featured landscape, with scant brown grass barely masking the black of the bog lands, and dying of! at the fringes of gaunt layers of rock which thrust their heads everywhere upon the vision. The O’Mahony observed with curiosity that as the land grew poorer, the population, housed all in wretched hovels, seemed to increase, and the burning fire-yellow of the furze blossoms all about made lurid mockery of the absence of crops.

Dunmanway was then the terminus of the line, which has since been pushed onward to Bantry. The two travellers got out here and stood almost alone on the stone platform with their luggage. They were, indeed, the only first-class passengers in the train.

As they glanced about them, they were approached by a diminutive man, past middle age, dressed in a costume which The O’Mahony had seen once or twice on the stage, but never before in every-day life. He was a clean-shaven, swarthy-faced little man, lean as a withered bean-pod, and clad in a long-tailed coat with brass buttons, a long waist-coat, drab corduroy knee-breeches and gray worsted stockings. On his head he wore a high silk hat of antique pattern, dulled and rusty with extreme age. He took this off as he advanced, and looked from one to the other of the twain doubtingly.

“Is it The O’Mahony of Muirisc that I have the honor to see before me?” he asked, his little ferret eyes dividing their glances in hesitation between the two.

“I’m your huckleberry,” said The O’Mahony, and held out his hand.

The small man bent his shriveled form double in salutation, and took the proffered hand with ceremonious formality.

“Sir, you’re kindly welcome back to your ancesthral domain,” he said, with an emotional quaver in his thin, high voice. “All your people are waitin’ with anxiety and pleasure for the sight of your face.”

“I hope they’ve got us somethin’ to eat,” said The O’Mahony. “We had breakfast at daybreak this morning, so’s to work the churches, and I’m—”

“His honor,” hastily interposed Jerry, “is that pious he can’t sleep of a mornin’ for pinin’ to hear mass.”

The little man’s dark face softened at the information. He guessed Jerry’s status by it, as well, and nodded at him while he bowed once more before The O’Mahony.

“I took the liberty to order some slight refresh-mints at the hotel, sir, against your coming,” he said. “If you’ll do me the condescinsion to follow me, I will conduct you thither without delay.”

They followed their guide, as he, bearing himself very proudly and swinging his shoulders in rhythm with his gait, picked his way across the square, through the mud of the pig-market, and down a narrow street of ancient, evil-smelling rookeries, to the chief tavern of the town—a cramped and dismal little hostelry, with unwashed children playing with a dog in the doorway, and a shock-headed stable-boy standing over them to do with low bows the honors of the house.

The room into which they were shown, though no whit cleaner than the rest, had a comfortable fire upon the grate, and a plentiful meal, of cold meat and steaming potatoes boiled in their jackets, laid on the table. Jerry put down the bags here, and disappeared before The O’Mahony could speak. The O’Mahony promptly sent the waiter after him, and upon his return spoke with some sharpness:

“Jerry, don’t give me any more of this,” he said. “You can chore it around, and make yourself useful to me, as you’ve always done; but you git your meals with me, d’ ye hear? Right alongside of me, every time.”

Thus the table was laid for three, and the O’Mahony made his companions acquainted with each other.

“This is Jerry Higgins,” he explained to the wondering, swart-visaged little man. “He’s sort o’ chief cook and bottle-washer to the establishment, but he’s so bashful afore strangers, I have to talk sharp to him now an’ then. And let’s see—I don’t think the lawyer told me your name.”

“I am Cormac O’Daly,” said the other, bowing with proud humility. “An O’Mahony has had an O’Daly to chronicle his deeds of valor and daring, to sing his praises of person and prowess, since ages before Kian fought at Clontarf and married the daughter of the great Brian Boru. Oppression and poverty, sir, have diminished the position of the bard in most parts of Ireland, I’m informed. All the O’Dalys that informer times were bards to The O’Neill in Ulster, The O’Reilly of Brefny, The MacCarthy in Desmond and The O’Farrell of Annaly—faith, they’ve disappeared from the face of the earth. But in Muirisc—glory be to the Lord!—. there’s still an O’Daly to welcome the O’Mahony back and sing the celebration of his achievements.”

“Sort o’ song-and-dance man, then, eh?” said The O’Mahony. “Well, after dinner we’ll push the table back an’ give you a show. But let’s eat first.”

The little man for the moment turned upon the speaker a glance of surprise, which seemed to have in it the elements of pain. Then he spoke, as if reassured:

“Ah, sir, in America, where I’m told the Irish are once more a rich and powerful people, our ancient nobility would have their bards, with rale harps and voices for singing. But in this poor country it’s only a mettyphorical existence a bard can have. Whin I spoke the word ‘song,’ my intintion was allegorical. Sure, ’tis drivin’ you from the house I’d be after doing, were I to sing in the ginuine maning of the word. But I have here some small verses which I composed this day, while I was waitin’ in the pig-market, that you might not be indisposed to listen to, and to accept.”

O’Daly drew from his waistcoat pocket a sheet of soiled and crumpled paper forthwith, on which some lines had been scrawled in pencil. Smoothing this out upon the table, he donned a pair of big, hornrimmed spectacles, and proceeded to decipher and slowly read out the following, the while the others ate and, marveling much, listened:


I.

“What do the gulls scream as they wheel

Along Dunmanus’ broken shore?

What do the west winds, keening shrill,

Call to each othir for evermore?

From Muirisc’s reeds, from Goleen’s weeds,

From Gabriel’s summit, Skull’s low lawn,

The echoes answer, through their tears,

‘O’Mahony’s gone! O’Mahony’s gone!’


II.

“But now the sunburst brightens all,

The clouds are lifted, waters gleam,

Long pain forgotten, glad tears fall,

At waking from this evil dream.

The cawing rooks, the singing brooks,

The zephyr’s sighs, the bee’s soft hum,

All tell the tale of our delight—

O’Mahony’s come! O’Mahony’s come!


III.

“O’Mahony of the white-foamed coast,

Of Kinalmeaky’s nut-brown plains,

Lord of Rosbrin, proud Raithlean’s boast,

Who over the waves and the sea-mist reigns.

Let Clancy quake! O’Driscoll shake!

The O’Casey hide his head in fear!

While Saxons flee across the sea—

O’Mahony’s here! O’Mahony’s here!”


The bard finished his reading with a trembling voice, and looked at his auditors earnestly through moistened eyes. The excitement had brought a dim flush of color upon his leathery cheeks where the blue-black line of close shaving ended.

“It’s to be sung to the chune of ‘The West’s Awake!’” he said at last, with diffidence.

“You did that all with your own jack-knife, eh?” remarked the The O’Mahony, nodding in approbation. “Well, sir, it’s darned good!”

“Then you’re plased with it, sir?” asked the poet.

“‘Pleased!’ Why, man, if I’d known they felt that way about it, I’d have come years ago. ‘Pleased?’ Why it’s downright po’try.”

“Ah, that it is, sir,” put in Jerry, sympathetically. “And to think of it that he did it all in the pig-market whiles he waited for us! Egor! ’twould take me the best part of a week to conthrive as much!”

O’Daly glanced at him with severity.

“Maybe more yet,” he said, tersely, and resumed his long-interrupted meal.

“And you’re goin’ to be around all the while, eh, ready to turn these poems out on short notice?” the O’Mahony asked.

“Sir, an O’Daly’s poor talents are day and night at the command of the O’Mahony of Muirisc,” the bard replied. Then, scanning Jerry, he put a question:

“Is Mr. Higgins long with you, sir?”

“Oh, yes; a long while,” answered The O’Mahony, without a moment’s hesitation. “Yes—I wouldn’t know how to get along without him—he’s been one of the family so long, now.”

The near-sighted poet failed to observe the wink which was exchanged across the table.

“The name Higgins,” he remarked, “is properly MacEgan. It is a very honorable name. They were hereditary Brehons or judges, in both Desmond and Ormond, and, later, in Connaught, too. The name is also called O’Higgins and O’Hagan. If you would permit me to suggest, sir,” he went on, “it would be betther at Muirisc if Mr. Higgins were to resume his ancestral appellation, and consint to be known as MacEgan. The children there are that well grounded in Irish history, the name would secure for him additional respect in their eyes. And moreover, sir, saving Mr. Higgins’s feelings, I observed that you called him ‘Jerry.’ Now ‘Jerry’ is appropriate when among intimate friends or relations, or bechune master and man—and its more ceremonious form, Jeremiah, is greatly used in the less educated parts of this country. But, sir, Jeremiah is, strictly speaking, no name for an Irishman at all, but only the cognomen of a Hebrew bard who followed the Israelites into captivity, like Owen Ward did the O’Neils into exile. It’s a base and vulgar invintion of the Saxons—this new Irish Jeremiah—for why? because their thick tongues could not pronounce the beautiful old Irish name Diarmid or Dermot. Manny poor people for want of understanding, forgets this now. But in Muirisc the laste intelligent child knows betther. Therefore, I would suggest that when we arrive at your ancesthral abode, sir, Mr. Higgins’s name be given as Diarmid MacEgan.”

“An’ a foine bould name it is, too!” said Jerry. “Egor! if I’m called that, and called rigular to me males as well, I’ll put whole inches to my stature.”

“Well, O’Daly,” said The O’Mahony, “you just run that part of the show to suit yourself. If you hear of anything that wants changin’ any time, or whittlin’ down or bein’ spelt different, you can interfere right then an’ there without sayin’ anything to me. What I want is to have things done correct, even if we’re out o’ pocket by it. You’re the agent of the estate, ain’t you?”

“I am that, sir; and likewise the postmaster, the physician, the precepthor, the tax-collector, the clerk of the parish, the poor law guardian and the attorney; not to mintion the proud hereditary post to which I’ve already adverted, that of bard and historian to The O’Mahony. But, sir, I see that your family carriage is at the dure. We’ll be startin’ now, if it’s your pleazure. It’s a long journey we’ve before us.”

When the bill had been called for and paid by O’Daly, and they had reached the street, The O’Mahony surveyed with a lively interest the strange vehicle drawn up at the curb before him. In principle it was like the outside cars he had yesterday seen for the first time, but much lower, narrower and longer. The seats upon which occupants were expected to place themselves back to back, were close together, and cushioned only with worn old pieces of cow-skin. Between the shafts was a shaggy and unkempt little beast, which was engaged in showing its teeth viciously at the children and the dog. The whole equipage looked a century old at the least.

At the end of four hours the rough-coated pony was still scurrying along the stony road at a rattling pace. It had galloped up the hills and raced down into the valleys with no break of speed from the beginning. The O’Mahony, grown accustomed now to maintaining his seat, thought he had never seen such a horse before, and said so to O’Daly, who sat beside him, Jerry and the bag being disposed on the opposite side, and the driver, a silent, round-shouldered, undersized young man sitting in front with his feet on the shafts.

“Ah, sir, our bastes are like our people hereabouts,” replied the bard—“not much to look at, but with hearts of goold. They’ll run till they fall. But, sir—halt, now, Malachy!—yonder you can see Muirisc.”

The jaunting-car stopped. The April twilight was gathering in the clear sky above them, and shadows were rising from the brown bases of the mountains to their right. The whole journey had been through a bleak and desolate moor and bog land, broken here and there by a lonely glen, in the shelter of which a score of stone hovels were clustered, and to which all attempts at tillage were confined.

Now, as The O’Mahony looked, he saw stretched before him, some hundred feet below, a great, level plain, from which, in the distance, a solitary mountain ridge rose abruptly. This plain was wedgeshaped, and its outlines were sharply defined by the glow of evening light upon the waters surrounding it—waters which dashed in white-breakers against the rocky coast nearest by, but seemed to lie in placid quiescence on the remote farther shore.

It was toward this latter dark line of coast, half-obscured now as they gazed by rising sea-mists, that O’Daly pointed; and The O’Mahony, scanning the broad, dusky landscape, made out at last some flickering sparks of reddish light close to where the waters met the land.

“See, O’Mahoney, see!” the little man cried, his claw-like hand trembling as he pointed. “Those lights burned there for Kian when he never returned from Clontarf, eight hundred years ago; they are burning there now for you!”