Well, The Lifter decided to rob him, and I am glad that he did. I am not dealing with a case in the moon either. I know this old man well; and I am acquainted with some others of his kind.
About an hour after the soliloquy above recorded had taken place a weak set of knuckles rapped upon the back door of the miser's dwelling. The fairies had put, in crystal Chinese white, many ferns and much delicate but tangled tracery upon the panes of the kitchen, yet through them the flaxen-headed stranger saw a round face, and a pair of bright blue eyes. The door was then opened and the head asked:
'Who are you?'
'A poor wretch, tired, ill, lame and hungry. If you will but let me go into the kitchen a rug will serve me for the night.'
'You're the same one, bad luck to you, that so irrithated the masther?'
'I merely asked him for shelter. I said nothing else,' replied the Lifter, in his very softest and, meekest tone. 'I am a poor Catholic boy, and the Protestants about here have no mercy on us.'
He had guessed Bridget's religion from her tone.
'Divil a bit of me blaives you're a Catholic. Not one.'
'In the name of the Father, and of the Son, etc.,' said the Lifter, piously crossing himself. 'And I can give it to you as the priest does in the morneen at the mass, "In nomine Patris, et Filio et Spiritu Sancti!"' again crossing himself. 'And I have been at confesheen, and said this,' striking his breast, "Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa."'
'O begorra, you're one right enough, God bless you; come in out o' the cowld, you poor cratur.' Now the truth is that The Lifter was not a Roman Catholic, but he made himself acquainted with a little of everything to serve him in his diabolical profession.