"No, ma'am; 'tis to a wild, solitary spot, with a power of waterfalls in it," replied the landlord. "But it gets its name from the beast I'm tellin' you of."
"Oh! is that it?" I replied.
"Yes ma'am; 'twas there that the horse leaped a precipice with the tailor that had about him the priest's soutane he was after makin'. The horse felt it like a stone's weight on his back, and down he went with the tailor."
The man told the story with some hesitation, as if not seeming to believe in it, and yet reluctant to express disbelief openly.
"It's a beautiful spot, though, ma'am; that's what it is. And mebbe you'd be goin' to see it yourself some of these days."
"Very likely I shall," I assented; "but first I want to see the old castle and the woman and child who live there."
"It's a good bit of a walk," said the landlord; "but the weather is fine, so I suppose you won't mind that."
"No, I won't mind it," I declared—"not in the least, and Winifred is coming for me in a day or two."
"And I hope she won't be a Will-o'-the-wisp to you, ma'am, and leave you in some bog or another."