“There was a son of old Sorley’s in the pageant to-day; a plaguey ill-favoured hound, who walked with his father,” said the landlord, “with a face sour enough to curdle all the milk in Dublin.”
“That was Sir Ludar,” said one of the strangers. “I had it from one of the redshanks.”
“Ludar?” said the soldier; “the very man. ’Tis his wench the Captain hath run away with. She thinketh him gibbeted, and—”
Here the door was flung open suddenly, and in rushed another soldier.
“Have you heard the news?” he cried.
“News?” cried the others, turning round to look at him.
“Why, yes. Her Majesty hath been robbed of a jewel. The traitor’s head that grinned on the gate hath been stolen, I tell you, and there sticketh a dog’s head in its place. ’Tis true.”
“Who has done it?”
“That’s the point,” said the messenger, who was plainly proud to have so much news to tell. “That’s the point. For we were all on guard, I tell you. Not a soul passed us. ’Tis said ’twas some spirit.” Here he doffed his cap. “We stood below, I tell you, when there came a blast of wind in our faces with a smell of brimstone in it. I smelt it. Then something curled up past us, like a white shroud, and shrieked as it went up. And, before we could look in one another’s faces, a great howl of devilish laughter broke over our heads, and drops of blood! Yes. I felt them. Here’s one on my sleeve—it burns like fire, I tell you. That was all. We fetched lights and went aloft (who is to be afraid of a spirit or two?) but we saw naught. Not a footstep in the snow, or a sign of man or fiend either—except only a headless dog. Ay, you may stare, but I saw it—it smoked brimstone, neighbours, and the snow all around it was red-hot! And what was most horrible of all, when we cast up our lights, I tell you, the Scot’s head had changed to the head of a dog, which grinned and leered at us, with eyes like coals and tongue all ablaze, till we could scarce stay where we were. That’s all. And ere I go back to that gate, neighbours, may I turn Pope and Spaniard! Give me a drink, host, for, by my soul, I know not which end of me is uppermost.”
By this time the company had left their benches and were scattered about the room, gossiping over this last great news and questioning the fellow more. Some came to the table where Ludar and I sat; and the soldier, looking hard at me, exclaimed: