One warm day in July Winifred and I set out in company with Niall—not, indeed, that he gave us much of his society. When we were in the car he drove in gloomy silence; when we were afoot he walked on ahead, wrapped in his cloak, with an air of gloomy preoccupation, his sugar-loaf hat serving as a sign-post which we were to follow.
When we came up at last to this celebrated spot, my breath was fairly taken away by its wild and mournful grandeur. Waterfall after waterfall came down from a height of two hundred feet, over great, rocky precipices, being spanned by a single arched bridge of Gothic design. On one side of the falls are tasteful grounds, with shaded walks and seats for the convenience of visitors; on the other, all is wild and barren—rock rising above rock, crag above crag, in a morose solitude.
It was toward this solitude that Niall led us, the noise of the waterfalls completely drowning our voices. We strode on by devious paths, turning more and more away from the water and upward by a steep ascent, till we found ourselves in surroundings shunned by the common folk, and wild, gloomy and forbidding enough to justify all that popular superstition said of this region. Once we paused to take breath, and I looked down from an eminence on the waters rushing madly to the tranquil glen below; and then I turned my gaze from the Gothic bridge, the work of man, to the mountain crag, the work of the Creator.
Suddenly Niall turned an abrupt angle, Winifred and I creeping after him. I was full of fear; but Winifred was fearless and smiling, holding my hand and encouraging me as though I had been a child. We stopped before a tangled mass of vines and brushwood. Niall pushed them aside, disclosing a small, dark entrance in the rocks, through which he passed, signing for us to follow him. This we did, Winifred whispering:
"It's the cavern. I was here once before—that time I told you I was going to the Phoul-a-Phooka."
We bent our heads as we saw Niall do, for the entrance was very low; and we advanced some paces along a kind of passageway cut in the rock either by the hand of Nature or by some long-forgotten outlaw of the hills. A surprise awaited us, such as is common enough in underground places; for we emerged all at once from the dark into a large and tolerably well-lighted apartment. The rugged walls of rock, moss-covered in places, were dry; the floor was neatly boarded over, and a fire was ready for lighting in a corner. Above it, a cranny in the wall permitted the smoke to escape. In a little alcove apart from the principal cave were a bed, a few chairs, and a table.
"Niall lives here for weeks at a time," explained Winifred.
Niall had set a match to the fire; for, warm as the weather was outside, there was a chilliness within as of a vault. Presently the sods blazed up, the flames leaping and glowing about the stooping figure of the old man, who seemed like some strange magician. We seated ourselves on the rough, deal chairs, near a table of similar material that occupied the middle of the cave; and Niall opened a curiously contrived cupboard and brought forth some plates and cups and saucers. Winifred, opening our luncheon basket, took out and spread upon the table its simple contents—cold meat, home-made bread, a pat of fresh butter, and a jar of apple jelly, which the landlord had specially recommended.
Niall then abruptly left the cavern, and returned in a few minutes with a pitcher of goat's milk; but how or where he had obtained it he did not explain.