“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 cock-crow 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.
