‘Then the world, Murtagh—to say nothing of the Irish part of it—will be a fool, even as I have often thought it; the grand thing, Murtagh, is to be able to believe one’s self, and respect one’s self. How few whom the world believes believe and respect themselves.’
‘Och, Shorsha! shall I go on with the tale of Finn?’
‘I’d rather you should not, Murtagh; I know about it already.’
‘Then why did you bother me to tell it at first, Shorsha? Och, it was doing my ownself good, and making me forget my own sorrowful state, when ye interrupted me with your thaives of Danes! Och, Shorsha! let me tell you how Finn, by means of sucking his thumb, and the witchcraft he imbibed from it, contrived to pull off the arm of the ould
wagabone, Darmod David Odeen, whilst shaking hands with him—for Finn could do no feat of strength without sucking his thumb, Shorsha, as Conan the Bald told the son of Oisin in the song which I used to sing ye in the Dungarvon times of old;’ and here Murtagh repeated certain Irish words to the following effect:
‘“O little the foolish words I heed,
O Oisin’s son, from thy lips which come;
No strength were in Finn for valorous deed,
Unless to the gristle he sucked his thumb.”’
‘Enough is as good as a feast, Murtagh; I am no longer in the cue for Finn. I would rather hear your own history. Now, tell us, man, all that has happened to ye since Dungarvon times of old?’
‘Och, Shorsha, it would be merely bringing all my sorrows back upon me!’
‘Well, if I know all your sorrows, perhaps I shall be able to find a help for them. I owe you much, Murtagh; you taught me Irish, and I will do all I can to help you.’
‘Why, then, Shorsha, I’ll tell ye my history. Here goes!’