“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 suck’d 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!”
CHAPTER XLV
Murtagh’s Tale.
“Well, Shorsha, about a year and a half after you left us—and a sorrowful hour for us it was when ye left us, losing, as we did, your funny stories of your snake—and the battles of your military—they sent me to Paris and Salamanca, in order to make a saggart of me.”
“Pray excuse me,” said I, “for interrupting you, but what kind of place is Salamanca?”
“Divil a bit did I ever see of it, Shorsha!”