“And who would hear me at all?” said Micus.
“Well, any one of the people who will be marching down the road when the fairies will go to their homes in the mountains,” said Padna.
“And when will that be?” said Micus.
“When the clocks will strike the midnight hour,” said Padna. “Then all the dead will arise from their graves, and march along the road to the Valley of the Dead, beyond, and return from whence they came before to-morrow’s sun will emblazon the east with its dazzling light.”
“I’m surprised at that,” said Micus.
“You should be surprised at nothing,” said Padna. “That’s if you want to maintain a solid equanimity. But hold your tongue for a while, and cast your eye along the valley, and watch the mist gathering on the furze and sloe trees. And in a minute or two, the moon will come from behind a cloud, and the most glorious sight that ever met the gaze of man will unfold itself before you. The mist will soon cover all the trees, and you will see nothing at all but one long serpentine trail of vapour, into which all the armies of the dead will plunge with a wild fury that will make every hair on your head stand on end and nearly freeze the very marrow in your bones with cold fear.”
“And what’s all the hurry about; why won’t they take their time?”
“They can’t,” said Padna. “From life to death is but a step, and we must follow some master or be driven by another until the threshold of eternity is crossed.”
“I hear the clock of some distant church striking the midnight hour.”
“So do I. And I can see the army of the dead approaching!”