From far down the side of the hill the sound of a woman’s voice reached them faintly. It drew nearer.
“That’s some slip of a lassie from off the farms below us,” said Hope. “She’s looking out for some cow that’s strayed.”
“She’s singing,” said Neal. “I catch the fall of the tune now and then.”
“She’s coming nearer. It can’t be a cow she’s seeking. No beast would stray that far up amongst the heather and the stones.”
The voice came more and more clearly. The words of the song reached them—
“I would I were in Ballinderry,
I would I were in Aghalee,
I would I were in bonny Ram’s Island
Sitting under an ivy tree.
Ochone, ochone!”
“I know that song,” said Neal.
“Everybody knows that song. There isn’t a lass in Antrim or Down but sings it.”
“But I know the singer too. I heard Peg Macllrea sing it once, Matier’s Peg, and I’m not likely to forget her voice.”
“If you’re sure of that, Neal, I’ll let her know we’re here. Anyway it can do no harm. There isn’t a farm lass in the whole country would betray us to the soldiers. Wait now till she sings it again.”