“Begor it’s not. The mountain is called Knockcalltecrore. It’s Irish.”
“And what does it mean?”
“Faix, I believe it’s a short name for the Hill iv the Lost Goolden Crown.”
“And what is Shleenanaher, Andy?”
“Throth, it’s a bit iv a gap in the rocks beyant that they call Shleenanaher.”
“And what does that mean? It is Irish, I suppose?”
“Thrue for ye! Irish it is, an’ it manes ‘The Shnake’s Pass.’”
“Indeed! And can you tell me why it is so called?”
“Begor, there’s a power iv raysons guv for callin’ it that. Wait till we get Jerry Scanlan or Bat Moynahan, beyant in Carnaclif! Sure they knows every laygend and shtory in the bar’ny, an’ll tell them all, av ye like. Whew! Musha! here it comes.”
Surely enough it did come. The storm seemed to sweep through the valley in a single instant—the stillness changed to a roar, the air became dark with the clouds of drifting rain. It was like the bursting of a waterspout in volume, and came so quickly that I was drenched to the skin before I could throw my mackintosh round me. The mare seemed frightened at first, but Andy held her in with a steady hand and with comforting words, and after the first rush of the tempest she went on as calmly and steadily as hitherto, only shrinking a little at the lightning and the thunder.