“A horse, is it?”
“Aye, the White Horse of Banba,” said Padna.
“And how came you to hear it?” said Micus.
“It was an old man of dignified bearing, tall and stately he was, with a long flowing beard, clear grey-blue eyes, nicely chiseled features, keen wit, and a soft easy tongue, who told me the story.”
“And where did you meet him?” said Micus.
“On the high road overlooking the Glen of the Leprechauns, on a starlit night before the moon came up,” said Padna.
“On with the story,” said Micus.
“Well,” said Padna, as he lit his pipe, “three weeks ago, come Tuesday, I was strolling along the road for myself by the Bridge of the Seven Witches, thinking of nothing but the future of the children, when I heard strange footsteps behind me, and on looking over my shoulder, I espied a man I had never seen before. And as our eyes met, he up and ses: ‘Good night, stranger,’ ses he. ‘Good night kindly,’ ses I.
“‘’Tis a fine night,’ ses he.
“‘A glorious night, thank God,’ ses I.