blamed for it. Plaze go back to Sleive-na-mon this night, for pace and quietness sake!” he begged.
While Darby spoke, the fairy-man was fixing one stool on top of another undher the window.
“I’ll sit at this window,” says the Master of the Good People, wagging his head threateningly, “and from there I’ll give me ordhers. The throuble he’s thrying to bring on others is the throuble I’ll throuble him with. If he comes dacint, he’ll go dacint; if he comes bothering, he’ll go bothered,” says he.
Faith, thin, your Honour, the King spoke no less than the truth, for at that very minute Terror, as foine a horse as ever followed hounds, was galloping down the starlit road to Darby’s house, and over Terror’s mane bent as foine a horseman as ever took a six-bar gate—Father Cassidy.
On and on through the moonlight they clattered, till they came in sight of Darby’s gate, where, unseen and onwisible, a score of the Good People, with thorns in their fists, lay sniggering and laughing, waiting for the horse. Of course the fairies couldn’t harm the good man himself, but Terror was complately at their marcy.
“We’ll not stop to open the gate, Terror,” says
