As they came near the first hill along its sides the evening twilight turned from purple to brown, and at the top of the Pig’s Head the darkness of a black night swooped suddenly down on them. Darby hurried on a step or two ahead, an’ resting his hand upon the large rock that crowns the hill, looked anxiously over to the Divil’s Pillow. Although he was ready for something foine, yet the greatness of the foineness that met his gaze knocked the breath out of him.
Across the deep walley, and on top of the second mountain, he saw lined against the evening sky the roof of an imminse castle, with towers an’ parrypets an’ battlements. Undher the towers a thousand sullen windows glowed red in the black walls. Castle Brophy couldn’t hould a candle to it.
“Behold!” says Darby, flinging out his arm, and turning to his wife, who had just come up—“behold the castle of my ansisthers who were my forefathers!”
“How,” says Bridget, quick and scornful—“how could your aunt’s sisters be your four fathers?”
What Darby was going to say to her he don’t just raymember, for at that instant from the right-hand side of the mountain came a cracking of whips, a rattling of wheels, an’ the rush of horses, and, lo and
