"It is really wonderful how you can remember all these old stories!"
"Niall has been telling them to me ever since I was a little child," replied Winifred; "and I remember a great many more. In that hall downstairs which you see from this gallery, the harper sang to a great company about the mines in these hills and the golden treasures buried in the earth—"
She stopped abruptly, as if frightened, looking at me intently. But at the time her words conveyed very little to my mind except the poetic idea.
"In that same great hall down there," said Winifred, "used to be set up 'the caldron of hospitality.' Every one that came was fed. Princes, nobles, minstrels, servants, pilgrims, beggars—each had a place at the big tables which used to be there." She paused and looked down, as if she could see the brilliant scene before her. "In the middle of the room there," she cried, "the chief Conal was warned by the spirit who watches over the castle that he was to die that day. He was very strong and brave and beautiful, and he didn't fear death a bit. He went to meet it; and in a battle, beside King Brian, he was killed by a Dane."
We passed on, pausing at a great chamber, with windows ivy-hung, giving out upon that exquisite scenery which has made famous the name of Wicklow. I looked out over the hills, whence a purple mist was lifting, leaving them illumined with a golden haze.
"I like the legend of St. Bridget," Winifred remarked.
"Tell it to me," I said.
"I suppose in America you believe in saints?" said Winifred, with such a look of drollery that I burst out laughing.
"All good Catholics do that," I said, "even if they are Americans."
"Of course this is a legend," Winifred went on; "and Father Owen—my dear Father Owen—told me that not all the legends told of the saints are true; but I think this one is."