“It’s no good,” replied my cousin, sombrely; “we must go on now. It’s too narrow to turn round. Let’s get on to those cottages and ask someone there.”
(The belief in the short cut here heaved its final groan and expired.)
We had climbed to a kind of small plateau in the heart of the hills, and on the farther side of the little indigo lake round which the track wound were a couple of cottages. We beat Sibbie into a trot, and made for the nearer of the two, and the barking of the usual cur having brought a young man out of the house, my cousin proceeded to discourse him.
“Are we going right for Kylemore?”
“Yo’re not.”
“Where does this road lead to?”
“To the Widda Joyce’s beyant.”
“And is that the end of it? Can’t we get on any farther?”
The young man looked at us much as an early Roman might have regarded the Great Twin Brethren.
“Bedad I dunno what yerselves is able to do; but there’s no answerable road for a cart whatever.”