“Why do ye lie under a hedge?” Dermod asked, and the old man thereupon gave a rambling account of his misfortunes, which included a sore back and inability to labour along with sound men. He had come from Mayo years ago and had worked at many a hard job since then, both in England and Scotland. Now that he was a homeless old man nobody at all wanted him.
When the party went up to the byre he stretched out his old thin limbs by the fire and fell into the easy slumber of old age. Suddenly he awoke with a start to find the fire still burning brightly and a beautiful girl with long hair flung over her shoulders looking at him. It was Norah Ryan; the old man thought for a moment that he was looking at an angel.
“God be good to me!” he cried, crossing himself; “but who is yerself?” Then as recollection brought him a face seen at the fire, he exclaimed: “Arrah, sure it’s yerself that is the colleen I was after seein’ sittin’ here a minute ago. Now, isn’t it a good cheery fire?”
“Have ye any home to go to?” asked Norah.
“Never a home,” said the old man, resting one elbow in the ashes. “There is nothin’ but the rainy roads and the hardships for a man like me.”
“But could ye not get inside of some house for the night?”
“God look on yer wit!” said the old fellow, laughing feebly. “Ye’re just new over, I’ll warrant, and ye haven’t come to learn that they have forgotten all about kindness in this country. They do not want the man with no roof-tree over his head here. They’re all black and bitter Protestants.”
“So I heard say.”
“Ye’ll be one of the right sort, I’ll go bail.”
“I’m a Catholic.”