Glad was he to see a light, and a minute after he was kneeling, dazed, drenched, and bedraggled by the hearth side. The brushwood flamed, and the brushwood crackled, and soon my grandfather began to feel a little warm and dry and easy in his mind.
"Andrew Coffey! Andrew Coffey!"
It's hard for a man to jump when he has been through all my grandfather had, but jump he did. And when he looked around, where should he find himself but in the very cabin he had first met Patrick in.
"Andrew Coffey, Andrew Coffey, tell me a story."
"Is it a story you want?" said my grandfather as bold as may be, for he was just tired of being frightened. "Well, if you can tell me the rights of this one, I'll be thankful."
And he told the tale of what had befallen him from first to last that night. The tale was long, and maybe Andrew Coffey was weary. It's asleep he must have fallen, for when he awoke he lay on the hill-side under the open heavens, and his horse grazed at his side.
