So we hollowed out the great mountain Sleive-na-mon for our home, and there we are till this day.”
The King stopped a while, and sat houldin’ his chin in his hands. “That’s the thrue story,” he says, sighing pitiful. “We took sides with nobody, we minded our own business, and we got trun out for it,” says he.
So intherested was Father Cassidy in the talk of the King that the singing and hammering had died out without his knowing, and he hadn’t noticed at all how the darkness had thickened in the valley, and how the stillness had spread over the hillside. But now, whin the chief of the fairies stopped, the good man, half frightened at the silence, jumped to his feet and turned to look for his horse.
Beyond the dull glow of the dying fire a crowd of Little People stood waiting, patient and quiet, houlding Terror, who champed restless at his bit, and bate impatient with his hoof on the hard ground.
As the priest looked toward them, two of the little men wearing leather aprons moved out from the others, leading the baste slow and careful over to where the good man stood beside the rock.
“You’ve done me a faver this night,” says the
