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"
Thare
's
not
half
an
hour
passed
since
I
saw
it
;
an
I
'm
as
sober
as
a
judge
upon
the
binch
av
magistrates
.
"
Sowl
!
a
dhrap
'
ud
do
me
a
power
av
good
just
now
.
If
I
do
n't
take
wan
,
I
'll
not
get
a
wink
av
slape
.
I
'll
be
shure
to
kape
awake
all
the
night
long
thinkin
'
about
it
.
Ochone
!
ochone
!
what
cyan
it
be
anyhow
?
An
'
where
cyan
the
masther
be
,
if
it
was
n't
him
?
Howly
Sant
Pathrick
!
look
down
an
watch
over
a
miserable
sinner
,
that
's
lift
all
alone
be
himself
,
wid
nothin
'
but
ghosts
an
goblins
around
him
!
"
After
this
appeal
to
the
Catholic
saint
,
the
Connemara
man
addressed
himself
with
still
more
zealous
devotion
to
the
worship
of
a
very
different
divinity
,
known
among
the
ancients
as
Bacchus
.
His
suit
in
this
quarter
proved
perfectly
successful
;
for
in
less
than
an
hour
after
he
had
entered
upon
his
genuflexions
at
the
shrine
of
the
pagan
god
--
represented
by
the
demijohn
of
Monongahela
whisky
--
he
was
shrived
of
all
his
sufferings
--
if
not
of
his
sins
--
and
lay
stretched
along
the
floor
of
the
jacalé
,
not
only
oblivious
of
the
spectacle
that
had
so
late
terrified
him
to
the
very
centre
of
his
soul
,
but
utterly
unconscious
of
his
soul
's
existence
.
*
*
*
There
is
no
sound
within
the
hut
of
Maurice
the
mustanger
--
not
even
a
clock
,
to
tell
,
by
its
continuous
ticking
,
that
the
hours
are
passing
into
eternity
,
and
that
another
midnight
is
mantling
over
the
earth
.
There
are
sounds
outside
;
but
only
as
usual
.
The
rippling
of
the
stream
close
by
,
the
whispering
of
the
leaves
stirred
by
the
night
wind
,
the
chirrup
of
cicadas
,
the
occasional
cry
of
some
wild
creature
,
are
but
the
natural
voices
of
the
nocturnal
forest
.
Midnight
has
arrived
,
with
a
moon
that
assimilates
it
to
morning
.
Her
light
illumines
the
earth
;
here
and
there
penetrating
through
the
shadowy
trees
,
and
flinging
broad
silvery
lists
between
them
.
Passing
through
these
alternations
of
light
and
shadow
--
apparently
avoiding
the
former
,
as
much
as
possible
--
goes
a
group
of
mounted
men
.
