“And what more would ye ask?” said Mrs. Fergus. “Sure, whin he’s done all this, and made fast frinds with every man, women and child roundabout into the bargain, what more would ye want?”
“Ah, what’s money, Mrs. Fergus O’Mahony,” remonstrated O’Daly, “and what’s popularity wid the mere thoughtless peasanthry, if ye’ve no ancesthral proide, no love and reverence for ancient family thraditions, no devout desoire to walk in the paths your forefathers trod?”
“Faith, thim same forefathers trod thim with a highly unsteady step, thin, bechune oursilves,” commented Mrs. Fergus.
“But their souls were filled with blessid piety,” said Mother Agnes, gravely. “If they gave small thought to the matter of money, and loike carnal disthractions, they had open hands always for the needs of the church, and of the convint here, and they made holy indings, every soul of ’em.”
“And they respected the hereditary functions of their bards,” put in O’Daly, with a conclusive air.
At the moment, as there came a sudden lull in the tumult of the storm outside, those within the reception-room heard a distinct noise of knocking, which proceeded from beneath the stone-flags at their feet. Three blows were struck, with a deadened thud as upon wet wood, and then the astounded listeners heard a low, muffled sound, strangely like a human voice, from the same depths.
The tempest’s furious screaming rose again without, even as they listened. All six crossed themselves mechanically, and gazed at one another with blanched faces.
“It is the Hostage,” whispered the mother-superior, glancing impressively around, and striving to dissemble the tremor which forced itself upon her lips. “For wan-and-fifty years I’ve been waiting to hear the sound of him. My praydecessor, Mother Ellen, rest her sowl, heard him wance, and nixt day the roof of the church fell in. Be the same token, some new disasther is on fut for us, now.”
Cormac O’Daly was as frightened as the rest, but, as an antiquarian, he could not combat the temptation to talk.
“’Tis now just six hundred and seventy years,” he began, in a husky voice, “since Diarmid of the Fine Steeds founded this convint, in expiation of his wrong to young Donal, Prince of Connaught. ’Twas the custom thin for the kings and great princes in Ireland to sind their sons as hostages to the palaces of their rivals, to live there as security, so to spake, for their fathers’ good behavior and peaceable intintions. ’Twas in this capacity that young Donal O’Connor came here, but Diarmid thrated him badly—not like his father’s son at all—and immured him in a dungeon convanient in the rocks. His mother’s milk was in the lad, and he wept for being parted from her till his tears filled the earth, and a living well sprung from thim the day he died. So thin Diarmid repinted and built a convint; and the well bubbled forth healing wathers so that all the people roundabout made pilgrimages to it, and with their offerings the O’Mahonys built new edifices till ’twas wan of the grandest convints in Desmond; and none but fay-males of the O’Mahony blood saying prayers for the sowl of the Hostage.”